GIFT OF 
 
BENJAMIN GILL 
 
SERMONS AND ADDRESSES 
 BENJAMIN GILL 
 
c^JL^u 
 
PREFATORY NOTE 
 
 T the regular meeting of the General Faculty 
 September 12, 1912, "it was voted," in the 
 words of the minutes of that meeting, "on mo- 
 tion by Dr. E. W. Runkle, that a committee 
 of five be appointed to arrange for the 
 issuing of a memorial volume commemorative of the 
 long, faithful, and devoted service of Dr. Benjamin 
 Gill, late Chaplain of the College and Professor of Latin 
 and Greek. The President appointed as such committee : 
 Professor Pattee, for the Faculty ; the Reverend J. McK. 
 Reiley, Dr. Gill's pastor; Mrs. Runkle, representing the 
 Woman's Club; Mr. D. F. Kapp, representing the vil- 
 lage ; Mr. S. K. Hostetter, representing the business con- 
 nections." 
 
 At the first meeting of the committee Mr. S. K. 
 Hostetter was elected Secretary and Business Manager. 
 Since it had no funds at its disposal, the committee de- 
 cided upon a subscription volume to be sold at the bare 
 cost of manufacture and advertising. It was decided 
 that it would prove more acceptable to the friends of Dr. 
 Gill who would purchase the volume if it were made 
 a collection of some of his best writings, rather than a 
 memorial work with tribute and resolutions. Professor 
 Pattee was accordingly elected as editor. 
 
 The papers of Dr. Gill given over to the committee 
 consist of the 148 sermons preached before the students 
 
 270235 
 
of the college between the years 1899 and 1911, a num- 
 ber of sermons preached elsewhere during the period, 
 and various papers and addresses given before literary 
 societies, at school commencements, and on other occa- 
 sions. 
 
 The sermons are in many ways remarkable. They 
 were all of them written out in full with extreme care and 
 dated and numbered. They were written always with a 
 view to the needs and the attainments of the students for 
 whom they were intended. How broad an area of subjects 
 they covered one can see by consulting the appendix at the 
 end of this book. They reflect in a remarkable way the 
 spirit of the college life during the era they cover. They 
 are colored often by some specific event in the college 
 week which had just passed or by the season of the year 
 or by some happening in the state or national life. Just 
 before the great football game he preaches on "The Ath- 
 letic Spirit"; at the time of the deplorable college strike 
 he speaks on "Come, Let us Reason Together"; at the 
 beginning of each year he gives always sound advice and 
 holds up the highest standard, striking always what he 
 hopes to be the key-note of the year. His illustrations, 
 many of them, are taken from the life and the environ- 
 ment of the college. It is a series of sermons that is a 
 part of the splendid history of the college and as such 
 should be jealously guarded in its most sacred archives. 
 
 In seeking a few specimens of Dr. Gill's work for 
 reproduction in this volume, the editor has held before 
 himself three requirements. First, he has sought those 
 selections that are most finished and most literary; 
 second, he has sought those parts of his work which would 
 be most redolent of the author's genial personality; and 
 
third, he has tried as far as possible to preserve addresses 
 that are a part of the history of the college, such as, for 
 instance, the Prayers, the memorial address for President 
 Atherton, and the last sermon delivered in the old chapel 
 before the whole student body. 
 
 To all who have helped in any way to make the 
 volume possible, to the Alumni of the Pennsylvania State 
 College and others who have helped with their subscrip- 
 tions, and to the friends who have in one way or another 
 made the work possible the committee wishes to express 
 its heartfelt thanks. That the book may be thought 
 worthy of the memory of the man whom it tries to honor 
 is the sincere wish of 
 
 THE COMMITTEE. 
 State College, Pa., March i, 1913. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Part I. In Memoriam 
 
 I. Benjamin Gill, A.M., D.D., by Erwin W. Run- 
 
 kle. 
 
 II. Benjamin Gill : An Appreciation, by Fred Lewis 
 
 Pattee. 
 
 III. A Tribute to Benjamin Gill, by C. T. Winchester. 
 
 Part II. Sermons and Addresses 
 
 I. Glimpses of Travel. 
 
 II. Fanny Burney and Her Times. 
 
 III. A Brotherhood of Culture. 
 
 IV. Values Inherent to Friendship. 
 
 V. The Preciousness of the Bible. 
 
 VI. How to Spend My Sundays. 
 
 VII. Old Home Week. 
 
 VIII. The Problems of Life Solved by Worship. 
 
 IX. Prayers. 
 
 X. Of What Use is an Old Man Anyhow ? 
 XL Academic Foundations. 
 
 XII. A Man is Worth What He Can Think. 
 
 XIII Success Through Monotony. 
 
 XIV. Moulded by an Idea. 
 
 XV. Honoring One's Name. 
 
 XVI. Consulting Our Fears. 
 
 XVII Some Practical Bearings of a Belief in the Future 
 
 Life. 
 Appendix. 
 
PART I. 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
IN MEMORIAM 
 I. BENJAMIN GILL, A.M., D.D. 
 
 ERWIN W. RUNKLE 
 
 Institutions like our own have two histories, one 
 written in buildings, the other in men. The one is ex- 
 pressed in external changes, the other in scholarly lives. 
 In our estimates, the former, openly avowed or tactly im- 
 plied, frequently overshadows the latter, but sober reflec- 
 tion brings us back to the moral worth of personalities. 
 Adapting a sentiment of Emerson's, we then affirm that 
 "institutions are but the lengthening shadows of men." 
 In the same sense that Rugby was Arnold, are our Amer- 
 can Colleges the sum of character forces, the personel 
 of administrator and scholar. 
 
 No one doubts that the common suffrages of our 
 College Community assign to Dr. Benjamin Gill a con- 
 spicuous place among these permanent character forces. 
 This admission quickens our interest in a sketch of his 
 life, and inspires a common tribute of affection and 
 esteem. 
 
 Benjamin Gill was born July n, 1843, in the woolen 
 manufacturing district of Yorkshire, in Northern Eng- 
 land. He was placed in a factory at the early age of 
 eight years, where he worked half time, going to school 
 the other half. In these schools, the one no less than 
 the other, he learned the lessons of "industry and faith- 
 fulness," the terms with which he loved best to charac- 
 terize his own life. 
 
When he was eleven years old, the family emigrated 
 to America, locating in Worcester, Massachusetts, where 
 Dr. Gill grew to young manhood. Bearing his share in 
 the burden of establishing the family in the new world, 
 our subject was immediately placed in a cotton factory, 
 and later apprenticed to a boot-maker near Worcester. 
 Factory conditions were severe in those days, the click 
 of the machinery beginning at a quarter of five, and con- 
 tinuing, (with only forty-five minutes for dinner), until 
 seven-thirty. Studying as opportunity offered at night 
 or in the shop, attending lyceum lectures in Worcester, 
 and reading books from its Public Library, he came to 
 have an unalterable ambition for higher education. Giv- 
 ing over his apprenticeship, he returned to Worcester, 
 but being a minor, was obliged to aid the family fortunes 
 by working in a machine shop. The war, too, broke out, 
 and this shop with many others was transformed into a 
 manufactory of gun fittings under contracts from the 
 Springfield Arsenal. Thus the sterner duties of war de- 
 layed but did not destroy his love of books and learning. 
 
 When twenty-one years of age, Dr. Gill had a capi- 
 tal of but thirty dollars, earned by working overtime ; his 
 real fortune lay in a fixed determination to secure a good 
 education. In March, 1864, he entered the academy at 
 Wilbraham, Massachusetts, and two years later, Wes- 
 leyan University, graduating with the class of 1870. 
 Those six years were years of struggle and sacrifice 
 which try men's souls. He supported himself by toiling 
 in the machine shop during the summer, by teaching 
 school, and finally by preaching, in addition to his regu- 
 lar college work. However, friends came to his aid, else 
 the strain would have been too great for even his indom- 
 itable zeal. 
 
 10 
 
Dr. Gill chose the ministry as his profession, and 
 upon the completion of his college course, he joined the 
 New England Conference of the Methodist Episcopal 
 Church, and "was settled" at Westboro, about thirty 
 miles from Boston. He was married in 1870 to Lucy 
 Eleanor Whitman, whom he first met at the academy. 
 A happy, Christian home was established in which she 
 shared the burdens until her death in 1897. 
 
 To all outward appearances, Dr. Gill was to follow 
 the life of a New England parson, bringing lessons of the 
 joy of sacrifice, the struggle of victory, to the people 
 among whom his life was to be cast. But fate had mark- 
 ed a path of yet greater usefulness. He was to instruct 
 youth, to teach teachers, to inspire those who would later 
 carry the message of manly work in the world into all 
 avenues of life. The opportunity came in the form of an 
 invitation in 1872 to teach at his old academy at Wilbra- 
 ham, He began by teaching, to quote his own words, "a 
 little Latin, some very elementary algebra, and arithme- 
 tic." In 1875, he was placed in charge of Greek and 
 History in the Academy, and during the seventeen years 
 of his connection, shared with the Principal of the School 
 the labors of administration at home and abroad. 
 
 It would be no fling of an arrow at a venture to 
 affirm he taught his pupils many things not in text-books 
 or curriculum; and the spontaneous tributes of these 
 students of his, many of whom occupy commanding posi- 
 tions in business and professional life, bear noble wit- 
 ness. Moreover, Dr. Gill was a public-spirited citizen, 
 taking an active part in town meetings, serving on school 
 committees, and ministering to the community liberally. 
 
 11 
 
In 1892 he accepted the Professorship of Latin at 
 The Pennsylvania State College, and as opportunity and 
 duty called, he later became Professor of Greek and 
 Latin, Dean of the School of Language and Literature, 
 and College Chaplain. 
 
 Since 1899 Dr. Gill has been in charge of the Chapel 
 Services, himself speaking on alternate Sundays. A 
 change in conducting the morning chapel exercises was 
 made in 1905, since which time, he has led the service. 
 Let who may, think these light tasks and duties. The 
 most inspiring, the most critical, the most strength-con- 
 suming audience is a college audience. Would that some 
 pen might marshall the fruits of these labors in the lives 
 of Penn State men. 
 
 In 1909 Dr. Gill resigned the Deanship of the School 
 of Languages and Literature (which later was merged in 
 the School of Liberal Arts), and gave all his energy to 
 the work of teacher and College Chaplain. He lectured 
 many times before Schools and Colleges, wrote for pub- 
 lications, besides ministering in countless ways and on 
 countless occasions to the varying needs and changes of 
 a college community. In the stress of affliction, in over- 
 whelming sadness, in bounty of joy, (and our college 
 community has had its due of such), both student and 
 co-worker have turned naturally to Dr. Gill for the ap- 
 propriate word, for healing consolation, for the common 
 touch of human brotherhood. The friend of all, he has 
 always given his best to his friends. 
 
 Academic honors and responsibilities were his 
 throughout his work. He represented the College at 
 various academic celebrations and educational meetings. 
 He was a member of Psi Upsilon Fraternity, of Phi 
 
 12 
 
Beta Kappa, and of Phi Kappa Phi. He was the Treas- 
 urer General, and one of the Regents of the last named 
 organization since its beginning, closely identified with 
 its policies and active in its growth. He is the father of 
 the Literary Club, an organization of the Faculty of The 
 Pennsylvania State College, which since 1895 has had a 
 vigorous life. In 1902 Wesleyan University conferred 
 upon him the degree of Doctor of Divinity. He repeat- 
 edly sat at the "head of the board" at Wesleyan banquets, 
 and upon Commencement occasions had the honor of dis- 
 tributing the prizes of his Alma Mater. 
 
 For thirty-nine years Dr. Gill's work as a teacher has 
 been almost continuous. He travelled in Europe during 
 the summer of 1882; and in 1905 spent the vacation in 
 California and the Northwest. In 1907 he was urged to 
 accept a brief vacation, and he again travelled on the 
 Pacific Coast. In the same year, he was married to 
 Ellen Urania Clark, of Cambridge, Massachusetts , a 
 teacher of literature, a woman of rare culture and attain- 
 ments. 
 
 To characterize the personality of Professor Gill, 
 seems like a superfluous task. Such terms as geniality, 
 friendliness, unselfishness, faithfulness, liberality, crowd 
 one's mind as descriptive of Dr. Gill's personal life. He 
 was known by everyone, the village child, the laborer, 
 the co-worker; and respected most when best known. 
 His life enshrined Tennyson's noble words : 
 
 "Kind hearts are more than coronets, 
 And simple faith than Norman blood." 
 
 His philosophy of life was formed early in his teach- 
 ing career. He determined to put his whole life into the 
 daily class-room work. He dedicated his best energies 
 
 13 
 
to the elimination of what was wrong and untrue in 
 young minds, and to the inculcation of what was right 
 and true. He made his class-room a workshop of char- 
 acter and learning, and tried to better the daily products 
 that came from these tasks. 
 
 He was always enthusiastic on the subject of the 
 Classics, particularly the Greek. He believed, as do many 
 of our greatest teachers, that there is still "no better drill 
 ground for a young, growing mind than an average page 
 of Latin or Greek." 
 
 Greater than all else, he was a prophet of the larger 
 view of things. He believed in the essential resasonable- 
 ness of the Christian life, as a life of service ; and his de- 
 votion and faithfulness in little as well as great duties, 
 developed a character which bespoke immortality. Let- 
 ters written, as it were, at the very brink of the grave 
 have the spiritual vigor and potency of the more abun- 
 dant life, the life everlasting. 
 
 As young in spirit as when he began teaching, open- 
 minded toward the newest and best that each new day 
 brought, giving his best, even when strength waned ; the 
 one ardent desire that found expression in every heart 
 was many years of usefulness and blessing. Such desire 
 too will be realized, for the influence of Dr. Gill, the 
 genius of his friendship, his scholarly, manly outlook 
 upon life; his moral faithfulness and religious courage 
 still live to bless The Pennsylvania State College. 
 
 Dr. Gill died on Sunday, February nth, 1912, at the 
 Church Home and Infirmary, Baltimore, Maryland. He 
 was tenderly laid to rest at Wilbraham, Massachusetts, on 
 Wednesday, February I4th, amid surroundings that be- 
 tokened eloquently the many-sided affection and esteem 
 which continuously crowned his life. 
 
 14 
 
I can conceive no more fitting conclusion to this 
 sketch than the tribute paid Dr. Gill by him whose silent 
 form rests within the shadow of the Auditorium, in which 
 the services and ministries of both lives so often blended : 
 "Faithful Friend; a Wise and Patient Counselor; an 
 Exemplar of the Best Standards of Manly College Life 
 and Learning. 
 
 'Integer vitae 
 Scelerisque purus.' " 
 
 An Address delivered at the Memorial Service at 
 State College. 
 
 II. BENJAMIN GILL: AN APPRECIATION 
 
 BY FRED LEWIS PATTEE 
 
 The services which Benjamin Gill rendered to The 
 Pennsylvania State College were three-fold. First of 
 all, he brought a genial personality, one that made friends 
 easily and that inspired confidence quickly and held it 
 permanently. His hearty laugh, his countenance beam- 
 ing with fun, his inexhaustible store of wit and anecdotes 
 made him welcome wherever he might go. Everybody 
 knew him and everybody loved him. He was the prince 
 of afterdinner speakers and the centre always of social 
 gatherings. 
 
 It was this power of compelling confidence, of win- 
 ning friendship, and of holding it, of radiating sympathy, 
 of entering actively into the lives of others, that made his 
 greatest impress upon the student body of the college. 
 I can do no better than quote from a letter written to 
 Mrs. Gill, February I2th, 1912, by one of the students : 
 
 "Dr. Gill was always very dear to me, and especially 
 
 15 
 
so after the death of my father, for he seemed to take 
 such a kindly interest in me, and smoothed out the diffi- 
 cult places in his own dignified, unpretentious way, so that 
 I have always felt indebted to him. His influence among 
 the students I have always felt was not sufficiently known 
 or appreciated. He had a kindly interest in all with 
 whom he came in contact. In spirit he was somewhat of 
 a boy himself and so could understand younger men ; and 
 with them he was approachable. His keen sense of 
 humor ever made him popular wherever he went. Occa- 
 sionally Dr. Gill would talk with me about young men 
 at the college in whom he had an especial interest, of 
 which interest the individual concerned frequently had no 
 knowledge. While he worked as an undercurrent, I am 
 glad to say he had the courage of his convictions, and 
 never hesitated to show on which side he stood when it 
 was necessary to take a stand. His many years of ser- 
 vice must stand as a tower of strength, and among those 
 who knew him he will ever be held in the highest esteem. 
 This is but a poor testimonial of his true value and posi- 
 tion, but I wished to express it, for I knew it must be the 
 viewpoint of many of the students whose good fortune it 
 was to meet and to know your husband." 
 
 And to those who worked nearer to him what a 
 friend he was. How it lifted one to his best to receive 
 letters from him with passages in them like this : 
 
 "And again I hope we shall knuckle into another 
 year not to think what we shall get out of it so much as 
 what we shall do in it. Here's with you, dear old friend, 
 here's with you for a life more solid than ever to all that 
 is good and true." 
 
 "Beloved, one thing is sure. If we sought the world 
 over we might find a nobler salary, more privileges of 
 
 16 
 
town or city, but should we find a cleaner and more in- 
 telligent friendship? Should we find more inspiring out- 
 look ? More chance to help ? I hardly think it. I have 
 a feeling that here we instill into men the manhood of 
 facing life and of taking it steadily and whole as Matthew 
 Arnold says. Here is with you for another year to put 
 more manhood into young men. It is a privilege. God 
 grant we may not betray it." 
 
 "Thank you for the dear note. Read carefully and 
 slowly Ephesians 3: 14-21. That prayer is my prayer 
 for you. God bless you, old boy, and hold you fast." 
 
 The second service that Benjamin Gill rendered to 
 the college was the bringing and the disseminating of an 
 atmosphere of true culture. He was of the old school in 
 the exactness and breadth of his knowledge of all that 
 is best in the higher realms of man's thinking and feeling. 
 He had read with careful study practically all of the lead- 
 ing classics in the Greek and the Latin languages, and 
 many of them he knew literally by heart. He was closely 
 familiar with the German and its literature, he had some 
 knowledge of Italian and Spanish, and he knew, as few 
 of the present day know, the entire range of English Lit- 
 erature. Wordsworth, Tennyson, Browning, Arnold, 
 Thackery, Dickens, he read and reread until he knew 
 them almost as he knew his Bible. 
 
 No man ever read more than he. His letters are re- 
 dolent of the beauties of his reading. Not once did he 
 write without allusion to the great books with which he 
 was in contact. 
 
 "I am bathing my soul in Samuel Longfellow's 
 Life of Henry W. Longfellow. It is a sweetly inspiring 
 book. Like the Life and Letters of George Ticknor, it 
 
 17 
 
gives one calm, and a more wholesome view of life and 
 more unquestioning trust and faith." 
 
 "I have bought several different volumes of prayers : 
 Dr. Samuel Johnson's, Theodore Parker's, and a volume 
 of prayers ancient and modern which I am reading with 
 comfort and profit. I am just finishing Foster's Dickens 
 and reading Goldsmith's Citizen of the World. I have 
 read perhaps one hundred and fifty pages of Livy at odds 
 and ends of time since term began. Mrs. Gill and I are 
 reading Lockhart's Scott, and I have just finished after 
 nearly a year Heroes and Hero Worship, Sartor, and The 
 French Revolution. So you see I fire very scattering 
 and loose where I please. Livy is wonderful when one 
 gets the swing of him." 
 
 "You ask how I am passing my vacation. Well, 
 actively I assure you. My long vacations have always 
 been times of enlarged study. I have in such times 
 read much German and Greek particularly, and since I 
 came out here, in Latin and in French. Knowledge is so 
 vast. I want to compass some of it. The little short 
 story of Balzac, Eugene Grandet is an absolute revela- 
 tion. The power to build up a character, to see beauties 
 and defects in character, to apply the microscope and the 
 lance : the power to detail the setting of things ! Balzac 
 is a wonder, a wonder! I have read since I wrote you 
 Agesilaus, Hiero, Economics. Tuttle loaned me Sara- 
 cinesca, San? Ilario, and Don Orsino. They are very 
 strong indeed. Crawford has a royal imagination and 
 strong passion." 
 
 "I try to keep in close touch with those spirits who 
 have enlightened the generations and kept up the tone 
 and fibre of the race. The man who has within arm's 
 
 18 
 
reach the best thoughts of Moses, Isaiah, Jesus, Paul, of 
 Dante, Milton, Shakespeare, of Homer, Herodotus, 
 Thucydides, Plato, Aristotle, of Cicero, Virgil, Horace, 
 Ovid, of Goethe, Schiller, Lessing, of Chateubriand, La- 
 martine, Rousseau, Sand, Hugo, Bossuet but then why 
 ennumerate? ought to be taken out and flogged if he 
 grumbles. If I had my Bible and Whittier only I would 
 be happy. How much more with all the unspeakable 
 wealth of innumerable others ! All these boundless treas- 
 ures paralyze me whenever I think of putting my own 
 pen to paper. Blessed books! Blessed opportunity I 
 have had to read them ! I am thankful for it all, God 
 knows." 
 
 During the last six months of his life, although 
 racked almost constantly with pain, he read nearly the 
 whole of Wordsworth and of Sophocles, much of Plato, 
 and every morning a section from the Greek Testament. 
 This element in the life of Dr. Gill had its effect upon the 
 college. It made his teaching vital. His pupils drew 
 ever from the living stream and never from the stagnant 
 pool. And its effect overflowed his class-rooms and 
 permeated the whole community. Wherever he went he 
 carried with him an atmosphere of scholarship in its 
 broadest sense, and of culture which was a constant re- 
 buke to that modern spirit that tends to build upon the 
 merely material for quick returns of mere material things. 
 
 He added little to the published literature of his 
 time, though for years he wrote constantly and volumi- 
 nously. "My sixteen efforts at the college during the 
 year," he once wrote me, "would make a good-sized 
 octavo." All of his sermons, even his "talks" to the 
 Epworth League and at prayer meetings, he wrote care- 
 fully out, putting upon them a literary finish and a beauty 
 
 19 
 
of style that makes them rank really as literature of dis- 
 tinction. His great love of literature and his high criti- 
 cal standards made him hesitate to offer work for publi- 
 cation. 
 
 At soul he was a poet. "If my power to write 
 poetry," he once wrote me, "had been equal to my love of 
 it, I should have excelled Shakespeare or Homer." If 
 the poetic passages were culled from his letters and ser- 
 mons they would make a rare anthology. He loved na- 
 ture intensely. His letters often began with the setting of 
 the season or a picture of the beauty of the day. 
 
 Writing March 28 he says, "The elms have put out 
 their little tassels and now are shyly starting their leaves. 
 The warmth of the bluebird's note, the lyric fragment 
 now and then of the song sparrow, the rat-tat-tat of the 
 woodpecker, the robin with his chi-lop, chi-lop, chi-lop, 
 chi-lee, make a variety of melody sufficient to scare away 
 the tortures of rheumatism." 
 
 And again: 
 
 "Before the shadows envelop it I would say, old 
 Tussey is in his white robe, the fields by Boalsburg are 
 beautiful, the trees down the avenue are bare, but beau- 
 tiful, so beautiful, as we know they are preparing to bloom 
 and leaf again. 
 
 'And we, new rising from the tomb, 
 In lustre brighter far shall shine 
 
 in ever-during bloom, 
 
 Safe from diseases and decline.' " 
 
 The third service that Dr. Gill rendered the college 
 came from his deep and rich religious life. For years he 
 occupied the college pulpit on alternate Sundays. No 
 other man in the history of State College preached so 
 many times to the students, and his message was always 
 
 20 
 
sane, always practical, and always inspiring. Narrow- 
 ness and prejudice had no place in that clear atmosphere. 
 He preached a free gospel from a free platform. He was 
 tolerant as no other man I have ever known, and sympa- 
 thetic, and human. He stood for helpfulness to all, in- 
 dependent of race or creed ; and standing always thus 
 he became a help to all. He took with tremendous 
 seriousness his responsibility as leader of the religious 
 life of the college. He gave his very best without stint 
 of toil. A passage from one of his letters reveals just 
 a hint of his methods : 
 
 "My daily chapel : this year I am using the utmost 
 care with it. I am making the most careful selections of 
 scripture each day. Then I build up a prayer largely on 
 some thought or thoughts in the selection and written out 
 in full. This I commit to memory or familiarize myself 
 with it." 
 
 The whole atmosphere of his life was religious. He 
 was saturated with the old hymns of the church, the 
 Bible he had at his tongue's end, and those who were 
 privileged to walk with him on sunny afternoons far into 
 the country round about the college knew how inspiring- 
 ly he could talk of the great leaders of the Christian 
 church and the vital religious history of the wonderful 
 century of which he had been a part. 
 
 His faith was childlike. Though often shaken by 
 doubtings and questionings which his active mind 
 brought vividly before him, he never once doubted the 
 reality of God and of his own personal relations to Jesus 
 Christ. 
 
 "My faith in God grows deeper and my hope in 
 Christ was never more strong. I wish I lived the religi- 
 
 21 
 
ous life as well as I know and have been taught. But 
 He understands and forgives. Pray for me and mine 
 as I do for you and yours, and may love shelter us all 
 our days." 
 
 Receiving a letter from him was always to receive 
 a benediction that sweetened and lightened not only the 
 day, but the whole week and the month. What wonder- 
 ful endings always to his letters: 
 
 "Many glorious years to you on this side of the 
 flood and many, many more in the eternal years of God." 
 
 And his faith grew brighter as his body grew 
 weaker. How cheerly he wrote in those last years of his 
 life! 
 
 "It is not growing old. I do not call it that. I am 
 living now ten times faster than I ever have and with 
 more appreciation of the rich circumstances of life. But 
 the machine in which I live shows now and then signs 
 of needing repairs. The inhabitant is lively, but his 
 house, oh, the weather attacks it and it's behind the 
 times, but it has done me good service in England and 
 America for sixty-six years." 
 
 It has been my privilege to see some of his words 
 written during his last period of illness. When it was 
 determined that a surgical operation must be made if his 
 life was to be prolonged, knowing the chances were all 
 against him he wrote in a firm hand full instructions as 
 to what should be done with his property and what gen- 
 eral plans were to be followed in case of his death. 
 Then he added these words: 
 
 "I am a Methodist with all my might, which ought 
 to mean a simple follower of Jesus. Let no words of 
 praise be spoken over me, or make them few. I have 
 tried to do as well as I could what I have been set to do. 
 
I die in the faith of the Lord Jesus Christ and complete 
 trust in the goodness of God. No impression made upon 
 me while on this planet compares with that left by Jesus 
 Christ. O such love, and all for me! Let the meta- 
 physics of it be buried as deep as Hades, the joy of it I 
 know and can swear to. I have tried to give my life in 
 common ways in common service." 
 
 And here is a note written to Mrs. Gill from the 
 hospital a few moments before the operation : 
 
 "The Lord is my light and my salvation. Of whom 
 shall I be afraid? In this sublime universe of Our 
 Father, think of it ! In this world where Jesus has left 
 the traces of his unselfish sacrifice and love ; in this world 
 where wife and children have given back love for love 
 
 in suc h a world, fear ? Fear ! ! No more ! 
 
 Fight and victory and greater victories in this world or 
 others. Pray for me. I am in perfect hope and trust." 
 
 And I cannot forbear giving the final entries in the 
 diary which he had kept for nearly half a century. They 
 are the true measure of the man. 
 
 "Sunday, February 4, 1912. Full of brightness; 
 such quiet bliss. I do not understand it. 
 
 'Lord, it belongs not to my care 
 
 Whether I die or live; 
 To live and serve thee is my share, 
 
 And this thy grace must give. 
 'Christ leads me through no darker room 
 
 Than He went through before; 
 He that into God's Kingdom comes 
 
 Must enter by His door. 
 
 'Come, Lord, when grace has made me meet 
 
 Thy blessed face to see, 
 For if thy work on earth be sweet 
 
 What will thy glory be?'" 
 
"Monday, February 5, 1912. Good sleep. Beauti- 
 ful dreams : Thackeray, Dickens, Longfellow and I at a 
 dinner together. Kittie and I sang, 'When He Cometh,' 
 'Jesus, the very Thought of Thee/ 'Behold a Stranger at 
 the Door,' 'Let us with a Gladsome Mind.' After din- 
 ner went to sleep. Shall I awake in His likeness?" 
 
 The life of Benjamin Gill has become a part of The 
 Pennsylvania State College. He came to it just as his 
 powers were at their fruiting point and he gave to it all 
 of his best years. The transplanting from the older soil 
 of Massachusetts seemed peculiarly to fructify and stim- 
 ulate him. He reached his highest powers, as one can 
 see from his sermons, during the vital decade of his life 
 between 1900 and 1910. His stamp upon the college 
 during that decade is indeed a deep one. He has become 
 a tradition and one of the most precious traditions of the 
 college. Happy the institution that has built a soul like 
 his into the foundations of its life. 
 
 An address delivered at the Memorial Service at State 
 College. 
 
 III. A TRIBUTE TO BENJAMIN GILL 
 
 PROFESSOR C. T. WINCHESTER, L. H. D. 
 
 If I rise to say a few words besides the coffin that 
 holds all that was mortal of Benjamin Gill, it is not to 
 present any eulogy upon him, still less to attempt any 
 cool analysis of his character. I only want to say what 
 hundreds would say were they here "The man that is 
 gone was my friend, and I loved him like a brother." 
 And I am sure that of all the multitude who would say 
 that truthfully, no one has better cause to say it than I 
 
have. I have known Benjamin Gill forty-seven years 
 ever since we were boys together here at school, and used 
 to meet in these old class-rooms or ramble together over 
 the dear old Wilbraham hills. Then we were in college 
 together. When we left college our paths diverged a 
 little, but I think there has never been a year in all of 
 the forty-two years since that time when we have not, b> 
 word of mouth or by letter, exchanged some friendly 
 greetings with each other. He was the one and only 
 man of all my college friends from whom I never had 
 any secrets. He knew my heart, and I think I knew his. 
 Our lives ran in different though parallel paths, but he 
 was bound to me by all the fraternal ties that can link 
 two men who must live apart; and in all these years I 
 have had no friend (outside the circle of my own house- 
 hold), so intimate and so dear as he the friend who 
 linked my boyhood to my manhood and my maturer years 
 in ties of work and memory and love. 
 
 I think Benjamin Gill had a positive genius for 
 friendship, a gift to make and keep friends. He was not 
 a weak or dependent man; on the contrary, he was 
 essentially a manly man. He knew how to stand alone, 
 and firmly, if need be. But there was nothing austere or 
 distant about him. His big heart was full of sympathy. 
 He craved companionship, the cheer of genial inter- 
 course, the stimulus of common interests, and all the 
 sympathies that warm and brighten life. 
 
 And what a friend he was ! He had so many of the 
 qualities of mind and heart that make life sweet and 
 wholesome. He was one of the most cheerful of men. 
 Life, indeed, for him had never been smooth or easy. I 
 think he had to gain by toil and struggle whatever he at- 
 tained in early life, and all through his life he had to bear 
 
 25 
 
almost all forms of trial and disappointment and suffer- 
 ing that can come to any man without his fault. It was 
 no wonder, then, that he had moods of despondency and 
 discouragement. Yet he kept through it all the hope and 
 cheer of youth ; there was a great deal of the boy in him 
 to the last. Of all the hymns he knew and loved and 
 how many he knew I think he loved best Addison's 
 "When all Thy mercies, O my God !" He told me once 
 that in the days of pain and weariness in the hospital a 
 year ago, he used to repeat it, from the first word to the 
 last, at least once a day, and would sing it over silently 
 to himself in the sleepless hours of the night. Of that 
 hymn there is one stanza that always seems to me meant 
 for him: 
 
 "Ten thousand thousand precious gifts 
 
 My daily thanks employ; 
 Nor is the least a cheerful heart 
 
 That tastes those gifts with joy." 
 
 That was Benjamin Gill. He had a cheerful heart 
 that tasted the gifts of life with joy. 
 
 He had that excellent gift of humor the power to 
 enjoy all the pleasing contrasts of life. And what a 
 good humor it was ; jovial, yet pure and sweet and kindly 
 always; without a trace of bitterness or vulgarity. He 
 had a laugh that it was good to hear. I shall hear it 
 always. Not the thin laugh of the satirist ; still less the 
 empty and vapid laugh of the mere jester "like the 
 crackling of thorns under a pot" but the big, hearty, 
 wholesome laugh "that doeth good like a medicine." 
 
 And he had the gift of song if any man ever had. 
 I have said that I shall not forget his laugh; certainly 1 
 shall never forget his voice. I shall hear it when every- 
 thing else for me is silent the voice I used to hear when 
 
we sang together in our college days, sometimes the 
 goodly hymns of the faith, sometimes in lighter mood the 
 careless songs of youth, sung through the college halls 
 or roaming up and down the moonlighted streets of the 
 dear old college town. It has been my fortune to listen 
 for more than forty years to the never-ending chorus in 
 which one generation after another of college boys pour 
 out their joy in song; but I have never heard a voice that, 
 in mingled sweetness and fullness, could compare with 
 his. He sang from his heart the whole of him sang. I 
 can see him now as his face lighted up and his eyes 
 twinkled, and he gave a peculiar lift to his head as he 
 threw himself into his singing. In later years, with 
 heavier burdens and failing strength, he doubtless sang 
 oftenest when he could sing at all those hymns where- 
 with the trusting heart strengthens its faith or soothes 
 its sorrow; but I think he never quite forgot those old 
 songs of carefree youth. The last time he was ever in 
 my house, I remember, we tried to see whether the voice 
 of age could still sound some of those young and careless 
 notes, and grew young together over those olden melo- 
 dies. I cannot help believeing that when his voice learns 
 the new song he cannot quite forget all the old ones; 
 and that wherever he dwells now, he will still have some 
 recollection of those olden and golden days of youth 
 here, "when our mouth was filled with laughter and our 
 lips with singing." 
 
 We all thought of Professor Gill as the student and 
 the scholar ; and such he assuredly was. There was rare 
 intellectual companionship with him. If culture consists 
 in knowing the best that has been thought and said in 
 the world, then I count few men of my acquaintance 
 more generally cultured than he. He was universally 
 
 27 
 
recognized as a most excellent teacher of the classics, 
 especially of Greek. Hundreds of men who studied in 
 his class-room can attest that. I do not say much of his 
 work as a teacher, because I personally never knew him 
 in the class-room; but assuredly he must have been a 
 good teacher, for he was himself filled with the truest 
 spirit of that literature he taught. Greek literature, 
 especially the Greek dramatists and Plato, were a delight 
 to him to the very end of his life. I have never yet 
 known a man who found such inspiration and solace in 
 the best literature, all his days. It was a delight to talk 
 with him about his reading, or to get letters from him. 
 Those letters were always full, not only of keen enjoy- 
 ment of his studies, but of the heartiest appreciation and 
 the most discriminating criticism. The very last letter I 
 had from him a letter every word of which deserves to 
 be written in gold was written in failing strength only 
 about two months ago, on the last Thanksgiving Day. 
 "I am going to try for an old-fashioned letter," he said, 
 "though I suppose my doctor would say no." Then he 
 tells me, among many other things I shall always keep in 
 memory, how even in those days he enjoys his reading. 
 "It is the old books and the choice books now," he said, 
 "for time is short." "The Bible always." (He always 
 read it through once a year.) Then he says: "I am 
 reading a little Plato every evening now; something of 
 the old familiar Sophocles 'who saw life steadily and 
 saw it whole;' and just now," he adds, "I am going 
 all through Wordsworth again, and with what com- 
 fort! Wordsworth, better than any one else, knows 
 how to unite what is temporal with what is spiritual. I 
 thank God I shall not go out of this world without the 
 knowledge of Wordsworth, Tennyson and Browning." 
 
Fewer men ever knew them better than he did, for he 
 knew them by heart. The best the world has to give, in 
 at least three great literatures, he knew in this way. 
 He had taken it into his life. 
 
 But you are thinking it strange, perhaps, that I am 
 saying so little of the distinctively religious life of this 
 man. Ah! my friends, that was just the secret of the 
 beauty and power of his influence ; he had no distinctively 
 religious life it was all religious. He could say as 
 he so often sang 
 
 "I know no life divided, 
 
 O Lord of Life, from Thee!" 
 
 I think of Benjamin Gill as just as religious in his 
 hours of work, yes, in his hours of play and of genial 
 humor, as in his hours of devotion. There was a rare in- 
 tegrity in his life that wholeness which is really holi- 
 ness. 
 
 But all those who know him well knew how devout 
 a soul he was, how strong was his faith and how tender 
 his love. Ever since those early days when we knelt in 
 the old church, which stood where this one now stands, 
 and pledged our resolve to lead a religious life (though he 
 began a little earlier than I), ever since those days, his 
 friendship and his example have been an inspiration and 
 a stimulus to all good things for me. Rarely or never 
 have I received a letter from him in which he had not 
 something to say of his religious faith and feeling; and 
 always in language perfectly simple and spontaneous, 
 without the first note of pietism or affectation. It was as 
 natural as the talk of his work or his plans or his friends. 
 He was called to pass through times of trial and dark- 
 ness, but I know how his faith sustained him then. Nor 
 
was he by any means ignorant of all the questioning and 
 doubt of our modern time. He said to me once, as he 
 had been reading from Matthew Arnold: "I have 
 Arnold's Dover Beach mood sometimes, oftener than I 
 ought, perhaps ; but my soul feels all the keener thrill 
 with Rugby Chapel." He was, indeed, to hosts of young 
 people, just what Arnold of Rugby was. 
 
 In the last months of his life he knew pain and 
 weariness and suffering in all their extremest forms, 
 with all the mournful alternations of hope and dis- 
 couragement. But he never murmured and he nevei 
 despaired. "I am fighting a tiresome fight for life," he 
 wrote me in that letter, last Thanksgiving. "I hope to 
 win; but. God is good and gracious, and I am happy in 
 His love and the simple faith of our fathers. God lets me 
 confront the whole universe every day. All the land- 
 scape is opened out before me, and nobody owns it any 
 more than I do ; and He has revealed the infinite in my 
 soul, too. There is a cry for life in me all the time ; but 
 it is a cry for whatsover things are noble, whatsoever 
 things are just, whatsoever things are lovely and of good 
 report. That means real life, don't you think so? He 
 who has lavished so much upon me will not leave me 
 comfortless. He will come to me." That was the cry 
 of this man, always a cry for life, but not merely for the 
 life of blood and breath ; rather a cry for whatsoever things 
 are true, noble, lovely, just and of good report, the things 
 that indeed make real life. And no pain or weariness, 
 no disappointment in his expectations, no frustration of 
 his plans, could ever silence that cry, could ever chill 
 his grateful love to the God who had implanted such de- 
 sires in his heart, or could ever extinguish his faith that 
 those desires would somewhere, somehow, be divinely 
 
 80 
 
satisfied. He would have liked to live longer, but he was 
 ready to go. There was work all about him he would 
 well have liked to do work that seemed set to his hand, 
 and that he must leave unfinished. But his work was 
 really not unfinished. Of a life like his, so full of work, 
 nobly, lovingly, gently done, so full of burdens patiently 
 borne, and yet so full of joy and cheer and help to thou- 
 sands of hearts, a life that carries with it into the unseen 
 the memory and the love of hosts of others of such a 
 life let us not say that it is unfinished. Say, rather, that 
 it is finished here as God willed, to be continued there as 
 God will "on the earth the broken arc; in the heavens 
 the perfect round." Life will be lonelier to some of us 
 now that he is gone, but for him there is no cause for 
 sighing or regret ; and for those of us who a little longer 
 stay, God grant that we may do our work as faithfully 
 as he did his, and bear our trials should Heaven please 
 to bring them upon us as patiently, nay, even as thank- 
 fully, as he did his ; and, in the meantime, remember as we 
 think on him and on ourselves, that, as he so often sang, 
 
 "All the servants of our God 
 In earth and heaven are one." 
 
 Delivered at the funeral services at Wilbrakam, Feb- 
 ruary 14, 1911. 
 
 .81 
 
PART II. 
 SERMONS AND ADDRESSES 
 
SERMONS AND ADDRESSES 
 
 I. GLIMPSES OF TRAVEL 
 
 We are at Chester Station though the old city is 
 yonder on the hill. Let us take this horse-car and in 
 five minutes we shall be within the wall. The street we 
 are now travelling was laid by Roman soldiers, or at 
 least dug by them out of the solid rock. Many a time 
 have legions marched down this street at a summons from 
 Rome. King Alfred in his day drew a line from Lon- 
 don to Chester and compelled the Danes to keep to the 
 north of it. This gateway with inscriptions and armor- 
 ial bearings is one of the town gates and the wall which 
 you now see is grey with the memories of nearly two 
 thousand years. This wall is pierced by four gates at 
 the four points of the compass. The old buildings that 
 face these two principal streets are built in a manner 
 peculiar to Chester. 
 
 The first comes square up to the driveway of the 
 street. The second story is let in to the depth of the 
 rooms on the first ; and the third story comes forward to 
 an even line with the front and rests upon it by pillars, 
 so that the side wall, as you see, is covered and on the 
 second story. The houses, built of stone or brick, are 
 very quaint, the timbers being left visible and often 
 heavily carved and with inscriptions in English or Latin. 
 The city's pleasure walk is the top of the wall, two miles 
 in circuit. Shall we mount it and walk around ? 
 
 35 
 
It is a substantial side-walk at least four feet broad 
 of nicely laid stone flagging. There is a parapet on its 
 outer side that was built in the days of Edward I., more 
 than six hundred years ago. Look down the parapet a 
 hundred feet at the waters of the canal flowing slowly by. 
 Here on the wall is a tower where King Charles stood 
 and witnessed the defeat of his soldiers by Cromwell's 
 troops in yonder meadow. 
 
 And now the wall grows lower and to the right of us 
 stretches away a cricket and tennis ground, scores of 
 acres in extent and level as a floor. Along the bases of 
 yonder bluffs and under the distant bridge must surely 
 run the river Dee, and I fancy that even now I see the 
 royal barge of Edgar and royal subject kings bending at 
 the oar as they row him down the stream; and Isaac 
 Walton fishing yonder on the bank. Our walk now 
 brings us under the beetling wall of the castle that rises 
 a hundred feet above us, guarded by red-coat sentinels. 
 The pavement we are treading now becomes a balustrade 
 along the castle wall and a shelf above the river Dee. 
 But again we turn the corner; the wall becomes a real 
 wall again, the river takes a more respectful distance, 
 and yonder is the old dilapidated mill. Its predecessors, 
 situated on this very spot paid toll to William the Con- 
 queror in the eleventh century. And yonder for sure 
 comes the dusty miller and with him the old and dusty 
 ditty that gives the picture all its charm. 
 
 "There was a jolly miller once lived on the river Dee; 
 He worked and sang from morn till night no lark so blithe as he, 
 And this the burden of his song forever used to be: 
 I love my mill, she is to me both parent child and wife, 
 I would not change my station for any other life. 
 Then push, push, push the bowl my boys and pass it round to me, 
 For the longer we sit here and drink the merrier we shall be." 
 
 36 
 
But while the song dies upon our thought the cir- 
 cuit of the wall is finished and we are walking up St. 
 Werburgh Street to see one of the most venerable 
 cathedrals in Europe the glory of Chester, as the sea 
 walls are of Liverpool. A turn in the street and its glor- 
 ies are full upon us. 
 
 The cathedral is of red sandstone in the shape of an 
 irregular cross with a tower at the intersection of the two 
 arms that rises one hundred and thirty feet above the 
 roof itself. What graceful pointed Gothic windows 
 light the aisles! Above them still, another row pours 
 down upon the central floor the light which seems to 
 come direct from heaven. As one passes through the 
 church yard and enters the low door, a spell of holy 
 influences settles down upon the spirit. How old, irreg- 
 ular, and broken is the pavement of the nave. Ages 
 since, the inscriptions over the dead, who are buried where 
 we are now treading, had become illegible. But look 
 around you and see the lessons in the lapse of time. 
 There hangs some Bayeux tapestry centuries old, here 
 some banners borne by English troops at Bunker Hill. 
 But the walls speak most loudly of the long generations 
 who have here come and gone to wonder and worship 
 since time was young. The cathedral seems to have 
 grown with the growth of architecture, for it is the Nor- 
 man and Early English. The decorated and perpendicu- 
 lar Gothic styles combine to show builders of widely dif- 
 ferent tastes and separated through long years. 
 
 Its lofty nave is more impressive than that of West- 
 minster Abbey, and its choir and lady-chapel contain 
 some of the finest wood carving in England. There are 
 stones in the foundation that were laid as early as the 
 appearance of Christianity in Britain or that were the 
 
 37 
 
possible foundations of a heathen temple that stood on 
 this spot. Anselm was a bishop here and so was Wolsey, 
 afterwards the great Cardinal, for his coat of arms is 
 still seen carved on the rafters overhead. 
 
 Walking through the time-worn cloister under the 
 gloomy light, you come to a grim, old disused door in the 
 corner. It is a massive plank, unsmoothed, with im- 
 mense wrought hinges stretching clear across and a latch 
 of the same material. It does not require a very bright 
 imagination to see again the mitred bishops followed by 
 a holy brotherhood of monks pressing across the passage 
 ways and through the door to prayers. 
 
 And now we have gone our rounds and as we turn 
 our steps reluctantly toward the door the organ begins 
 its saintly strains. The music seems adapted to the fret- 
 ted stone work, the gorgeous windows, the sombre light, 
 and it gradually wanders off up under and around the 
 stately arches and is absorbed in the grey stones. How 
 sadly do we look and look again on all this splendor we 
 may never again see. And lo, as we step out, the steeple 
 bells chime the hour causing us to halt and hold our 
 breath till their last faint echo floats away over the 
 sleepy old town and dies on the ear. 
 
 These chimes remind me now of standing on the 
 public squares of Bruges on a Sabbath day when the 
 forty-eight bells in that noted bell-tower fairly stopped 
 me and startled me. Why, friends, it was another gospel 
 of good tidings, a faint fragment of melody dropped out 
 of heaven. My ear will have lost its love for the con- 
 cord of sweet sounds when I forget the bells of Durham 
 Cathedral and of Christ Church, Oxford, as I heard them 
 calling the people to prayer. Bells have a music pecu- 
 liarly their own and widely contrasted with other sounds. 
 
 38 
 
A fife and drum awaken patriotic valor, an organ settles 
 us into a state of holy devotion, but a chime of bells 
 awakens holy memories of souls and days long since de- 
 parted. 
 
 "Those evening bells ! Those evening bells ! 
 How many a tale their music tells, 
 Of youth, and home and that sweet time, 
 When last I heard their soothing chime." 
 
 I am reminded of an entry in Newman's journal : 
 "Sunday evening bells pealing. The pleasure of hearing 
 them. It leads the mind to a longing after something, 
 I know not what. It does not bring past years to remem- 
 brance; it does not bring anything. What does it do? 
 We have a kind of longing after something dear to us, 
 and well-known to us very soothing. Such is my feel- 
 ing at this minute as I hear them." 
 
 Enough of the old town the cathedral, the organ, 
 the bells the noise of modern life awakens us from our 
 reveries and it fills us with a feeling of disgust. With a 
 conceit that has become the second nature of our country 
 we stigmatize with the name "dark ages" that period in 
 which the cathedral, the organ, the chimes, and other 
 outward symbols of devotion had their birth. Alas that 
 it is our high ambition to be slavishly devoted to work 
 and to that which comes of its wealth and to be willing to 
 live the slavish imitators in wood work and stone work, 
 yes and even in dress, of those whom we look down upon 
 as beneath us in culture and civilization! 
 
 Our last day of sight-seeing was a visit to two 
 baronial castles, Chatsworth House and Haddon Hall. 
 Both are in Derbyshire in Northern Central England, in 
 the quiet valleys of two adjoining streams, the Derwent 
 and the Wye. Chatsworth, the residence for generations 
 
of the Dukes of Devonshire, and the Earls of Cavendish, 
 is an immense building consisting of a series of lordly 
 palaces that have been in building from the days of 
 Charles I. to the present in styles to match the periods. 
 Haddon Hall, a castle and palace of the Fifteenth Century, 
 has not been trodden, save by the foot of the pilgrim, for 
 two hundred years and is become a lordly ruin. It is 
 owned by the Duke of Rutland who is going to allow it 
 to remain as long as it will a specimen of a castle of the 
 middle ages. 
 
 After a beautiful ride from Rugby through Derby 
 and Leicester, we came in the early afternoon into Der- 
 byshire. This is a sudden transition, for through Wind- 
 sor, Oxford, Stratford, and Warwick the country very 
 generally spreads out before you an open prospect on all 
 sides and usually but little wooded. But now at Amber- 
 gate and Matlock bold hills appear. Abrupt hills, deep 
 gorges with the lazy moving Derwent silent, slow, and 
 black, or tumbling headlong over its rocky bed. We stop 
 at Rowsley Station and take a cab for Chatsworth, our 
 road falling slowly down into a narrow valley then rising 
 up again upon and around a gentle hill slope. Passing 
 on between hedge rows fairly white with dust, we 
 startle from its slumber a little nodding hamlet with the 
 usual inns and church and then, turning suddenly to the 
 left, we cross the Derwent by a stone bridge, to find our- 
 selves in Chatsworth Park. Our road now, for a mile 
 or more, will be a perfect bow along a hill that slopes per- 
 haps thirty degrees until we enter at the other end of 
 the bow by a bridge over the Derwent upon Chatsworth 
 lawns. To this bow the Derwent forms a loose cord and 
 streams so lazily, this warm golden afternoon, as to re- 
 flect the stately mansion and the hills in the rear, these 
 
 40 
 
latter lying outside the bow that I just spoke of. We are 
 ascending the slope, at our right the river flowing with 
 reluctance, as it were, through this the loveliest park per- 
 haps in England, trees glassing and dipping their 
 branches in the stream, cows browsing beside or stand- 
 ing reflected in it, grouse in the meadows and deer un- 
 der many of the trees. Passing slowly up to the top- 
 most part of the bow and under the shades of the noble 
 trees, many of which were planted by royal hands, we 
 now see down yonder across the Derwent, set amid lawns 
 and gardens of one hundred and twenty acres in extent, 
 the Palace of the Peak, Chatsworth House. 
 
 Whence comes these lordly gardens, this park of 
 more than two thousand acres, the whole estate of more 
 than eighty thousand acres? Largely through the sev- 
 eral marriages of Elizabeth of Hardwick, or Bess of 
 Hardwick, who lived three hundred years ago. The 
 combined estates of her several husbands produced this 
 estate, six times as large in extent as the taxable land of 
 the town where I live. 
 
 You see the somewhat abrupt and wooded hill that 
 passes along back of the house and grounds. Do you 
 descry yonder at its northern extremity more than a mile 
 off, a stone tower? Mary Queen of Scotts was kept a 
 prisoner at Chatsworth several times during thirteen 
 years and was allowed two privileges only, and one was 
 to witness from the tower the sport of hare and hounds 
 on the hill slopes below and around her. 
 
 Not then, however, did this charming scene lie at the 
 foot of the hills. The wooded heights frowned down 
 upon her; the now clipped and velvety lawns were then 
 unkempt meadows and scraggley fields, desolate phases 
 of nature that made her soul more desolate perhaps, the 
 
 41 
 
more so as soldiers paced up and down the visible marks 
 of her assured captivity. It was possibly these scenes 
 that gave birth to Mary's famous Latin Hymn 
 "Oh Domine deus, speravi in te: 
 
 Oh care mi Jesu, nunc libera me: 
 
 In dura catena, in misera poena 
 
 Desidero te. 
 
 Languendo, gemendo et genuflectendo, 
 
 Adoro, imploro ut liberes me!" 
 
 I have scarce time to take you across this stately 
 bridge and within the walls of this ducal mansion, or 
 even to tell you what is there of splendor and beauty ; the 
 frescoed halls and ceilings, the wood carving in the 
 chapel by Gibbons, the inlaid oak floors, state apartments 
 where kings and queens have slept, and above all that 
 restful series of views one gets from the windows. You 
 look out upon lawns, level as a table, sleek as velvet. 
 I am earthly enough to think that I should be satisfied 
 if God gave me no more heaven than that which can be 
 seen from the windows of Chatsworth or of Warwick 
 Castle. What are architecture, painting, antiquities, the 
 galleries of the Louvre, Versailles, Antwerp, Amsterdam 
 with their miles of pictures to the effects that nature can 
 produce, with a little of man's assistance? These peeps 
 from the windows at Warwick Castle at Avon flowing 
 by at the base of the walls, at the ivy-covered bridge 
 spanning it, at the endless green stretch of meadow be- 
 yond with cattle feeding or resting under the broad 
 shade, at the hoary cedars stretching out horizontally 
 their vigorous piney arms and flourishing as when the 
 crusading Warwick transplanted them from Lebanon 
 seven hundred years ago, what does one need of imagi- 
 native productions when the real can be worked up into 
 such celestial effects? 
 
But our walk through the almost endless corridors 
 of Chatsworth is done. We are left by our guides at the 
 rear of the house and, neglecting the green-house and the 
 stable, make our way over the parapet into the front yard 
 and for a moment lie down upon the grass under the 
 trees, basking in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun, 
 lazy as the historic little stream that is moving by at our 
 feet. Just beyond is Edensor, the little village in the 
 park in whose grave-yard the Earls of Cavendish, Dukes 
 of Devonshire lie buried, among them the new-made 
 grave of Frederick, murdered in Ireland the preceding 
 May. Here is the epitaph: "He went out as Chief 
 Secretary to Ireland, full of love to that country, full of 
 hope for her future, full of capacity to render her service, 
 and was murdered in the Phoenix Park in Dublin, within 
 twelve hours of his arrival, May 6, 1882." 
 
 But time presses and we must hurry to our carriage. 
 The sun is more than half way toward his setting. 
 Crowds of visitors are scattered everywhere, through the 
 park and on the lawns and by the stream. Reluctantly 
 we wind our way along the bow by which we came, look- 
 ing back again and again at the glories of the stately 
 palace. Meanwhile the cascade on the hill-slope back of 
 the house has been set in motion and a stream of water 
 is now pouring step by step down the hill and causing 
 the whole valley to re-echo. The great fountain also, 
 standing in the middle of the lawn and built originally to 
 adorn a visit of the Emperor of Russia, is sending up its 
 mighty jet two hundred feet into the air, enveloping the 
 mansion in a gorgeous rainbow. 
 
 With a conscious heart-ache we find ourselves ever 
 and again looking back and saying, "good bye Chats- 
 worth !" as we make our way to another valley only four 
 
 43 
 
or five miles distant, watered by the Wye. Here is a 
 scene of contrasts. No glory of an afternoon sun, rather 
 the cool of evening. Gradually night is creeping over 
 this irregular valley of less than a fourth of a mile in 
 width. Gentle hills on either side, wooded and from one 
 hundred to one hundred and fifty feet in height. The 
 valley is a rough meadow and considerably inclined. Cows 
 are coming home from pasture. The scene is enlivened 
 by no human being. Babbling Wye is hurrying noisily 
 along as if to escape the haunted old ruin yonder which 
 we shall soon approach by a bridge over the little stream. 
 Yon venerable ruin, ages since covered with moss and 
 lichens, wild flowers and ivy, looks now as though it were 
 part of all that God has made here and around us. It 
 is attractive not to the holiday crowd but only to the oc- 
 casional pilgrim of pencil or brush. You see the ruin 
 lengthwise up the hill; it does not lie in lazy grandeur, 
 like Chats worth, along the greensward at its feet. 
 Lawns, fountains, parterres, gaily dressed crowds 
 where are they all? They would be intruders here. 
 Man departed from these hills hundreds of years ago, 
 therefore let Nature carry on her work. She will creep 
 over the ruins which the hand of man or the tooth of 
 time have made and with ivy and moss will array them 
 in garments fit for old age and burial. Thus it is at 
 Kenilworth where the ivy has grown to conceal the de- 
 fects of what was once so perfect, where the sod is now 
 the tapestry of the elegant dining hall in which Leicester 
 feasted Queen Elizabeth; thus also is it at St. Cloud 
 and of all European ruins that is perhaps the most touch- 
 ing and impressive. There, only fourteen years ago 
 (1870) Napoleon and Eugenie were the observed of all 
 observers the brilliant centre of the gaiety of Paris and 
 
 44 
 
Europe. But the Germans came on Paris ; the Commune 
 fired St. Cloud; Napoleon was left without an Empire, 
 an exile. Soon the exiled queen was a widow and but 
 a little later was bereft of her only child. But the revo- 
 lution at St. Cloud does not interrupt the miracle of na- 
 ture. Wild flowers and moss grow already in the win- 
 do wless casements and on the tops of the roofless apart- 
 ments, and pillars of marble and porphyry are assuming 
 that dress in which nature enwraps everything that is 
 doomed to forgetfulness. The walls still stretch away 
 to limited distances under trees that still show the signs 
 of artistic trimming. Flowers grow still in the beds, but 
 only as nature grows them. Gold fish sport in the foun- 
 tains, but alas for the human occupants who planned all 
 this magnificence, they are dead or dead to it. 
 
 But we are entering the old deserted hall on the 
 Wye. We go up the hill and under the arched entrance. 
 The iron gates are flung open. No warden, looking 
 through the little peephole in the wall, stops to take our 
 measure before admitting us. Many a gay company of 
 mail-clad warriors has gone hence to the hunt or the 
 fight, with hawk and hound and ladies gay; many a one 
 has been brought back under the archway flecked with 
 blood, maimed or dead. With such thoughts do we pass 
 through the gateway and stand in the lower of the two 
 paved courts. The buildings on this side are the rooms 
 where the Lord and Lady lived; on the next side were 
 the servants apartments; there was the chapel; yonder 
 were the dining hall and kitchen. 
 
 Busy times here two hundred and three hundred 
 and four hundred years ago. See how the stone thres- 
 holds are worn to a curve, how the floors are worn and 
 broken, how the great oak blocks in the kitchen have 
 
 45 
 
been hewn down under the butcher's cleaver, and the 
 mixing bowls and kneading boards under the cook's 
 labors. How antiquated the old dais in the hall where 
 my Lord and Lady used to sit, and the minstrel gallery 
 opposite where, as the player touched the harp, poetry 
 flowed from the soul extempore, not always with studied 
 grace yet seldom without poetic fire. Bluff King Hal has 
 walked this floor in merry dance. Arthur, his elder 
 brother and husband of Catherine of Aragon, was edu- 
 cated here in part under the Duke of Vernon. 
 
 The place is fitted for romance. Dorothy de Ver- 
 non, daughter of the Lord of Haddon, fell in love with 
 John Manners, son of the Duke of Rutland (of course 
 against her parents' will, else why go on with the story?). 
 Young Manners used often to visit the terraces and the 
 woods back of the hall, disguised as a hunter; and in 
 that way young Dorothy kept her affection warm. One 
 night her older sister was to be married to the Earl of 
 Derby and when the festivities were well in progress 
 Dorothy slipped out by a side door and "flew to her lov- 
 er's arms." Next day they were married in Leicester- 
 shire. Of course the old folks were reconciled and, 
 what is more, as the old Baron de Vernon had no heir to 
 succeed him, pretty Dorothy transferred the estates from 
 the house of Vernon to the house of Rutland. But we 
 must cut these reflections short for in half an hour our 
 train will be at Rowsley and the promptness and despatch 
 of business are not in keeping with reveries and poetry. 
 
 Well, we have seen two magnificent estates. As 
 Americans, we can but admire the power that wealth and 
 prestige have to put the world off at such a respectful 
 distance; to monopolize the broad stretches of hill, val- 
 ley, and streams crowning them with tasteful objects and 
 
throwing over them a perpetual Sabbath of quiet or holi- 
 day of mirth. 
 
 But, let us ask God to forgive us, for in twenty min- 
 utes we shall see a contrast that will make the heart 
 ache. From Ambergate toward Sheffield the express 
 train will, in half an hour, transform this heaven into a 
 hell; green fields into heaps of ashes; skies of unsullied 
 loveliness into an eclipse of dirt and smoke that will be 
 lifted only when the coal-beds and iron mines of the 
 world are consumed. Here fires spring from the earth, 
 not flowers. Here human creatures wear the pinched 
 pale faces of want and toil. Here as many dwellings 
 and people as possible seem to come crowding together 
 by the reversal of all human laws. This is the great 
 coaling region, the centre for steel and iron manufacture, 
 Sheffield and Barnsley. Oh, if there be a place where 
 the gloom, the filth, the squalor, the hard-work, the igno- 
 rance, and the brutality of England centre it must be 
 this Pandemonium through which we are now passing 
 in the lurid dusk of evening. Dickens pictured this re- 
 gion years ago in Old Curiosity Shop, in the wanderings 
 of the Old Man and Little Nell. Mrs. Burnett has 
 given it to us latterly in her novel, That Lass o' Lowries. 
 There is something wrong, depend upon it, in the social 
 conditions and training of a people that can be content 
 to allow such contrasts in such close proximity. 
 ************** 
 
 If there be any place in this world where thoughts 
 crowd thick and fast, where a man listens for the slight- 
 est reminiscences and thoughts that come from mind 
 and soul, it is in that half mile of street between Tra- 
 falgar Square and Westminster. There never can have 
 been a street on earth along which have passed so many 
 
 47 
 
human interests and for so long. For more than a 
 thousand years successively have the national legislature 
 and sanctuary of England been here. Rome has not the 
 eternity of London. A thousand years and Rome was 
 in ruins. A thousand years and London shines with in- 
 creasing lustre, her Parliament holding sway over spaces 
 ten-fold greater than those of imperial Rome and over a 
 complexity of interests that would have crazed a Caesar. 
 
 An Englishman's best inspirations are received and 
 given back at Westminster. Right there, at present, is 
 the centre of the world, for there are the Houses of Par- 
 liament and the Abbey. As one looks on these two 
 centres of illustrious legislation and burial, (for they are 
 side by side), he naturally asks what there is common to 
 two places so widely contrasted. For repeated visits to 
 the one make him feel that it is inseparable from the 
 other. The busy Parliament crowds on your thought 
 while you are in the Abbey; sitting amid the memorials 
 of Pitt, Fox, Canning, and Peel, your thoughts are car- 
 ried to the legislative halls across the street in which 
 their laurels were won. Or if you look down from the 
 galleries of Parliament upon the grey heads of Gladstone, 
 Bright, Grey, and Argyll, you know that in a few years 
 hence the sacred dust of these men will rest in the Abbey 
 yonder or that, at least, some memorial of them will find 
 place amid other of the noble departed. 
 
 What are the two poles of contrast that meet to- 
 gether so as to thrill us with the greatness of England 
 and her sons? It is the solid devotion to duty that she 
 demands of the living and the sacred character that at- 
 taches to the noble dead. What enobles every little act 
 of the living, what makes them illustrious when dead? 
 I am sure you will not anticipate my answer. 
 
 48 
 
Meeting issues has made England and Englishmen 
 great. Mind I did not say meeting great issues, but 
 issues whether great or small. 
 
 Neither England nor Englishmen have had always 
 spotless records. She has had her share of weaknesses. 
 Not to go farther back than the present sovereign, there 
 have been things that cause us to blush for her con- 
 scienceless policy, her mercenary hardness. The war 
 that forced opium on China, the action that tried to dic- 
 tate a policy to Afghanistan, that sympathized with and 
 lent money aid to the South during our late war. It was 
 the same conscienceless policy that lost the thirteen col- 
 onies, and thus unwittingly prepared the way for a nation 
 in which might be developed those principles of liberty 
 and religion that could not find room enough in the Old 
 World. 
 
 Do not forget, however, that England has manfully 
 redressed many of these injuries, or has protested, as a 
 people, against the short-sighted, mercenary acts of her 
 men in power. We need to be reminded by a short table 
 of contents only that, for long generations, grand, soul- 
 enobling influences have issued out of this same palace 
 yard at Westminster. Here what has England not 
 done, even for you and me? 
 
 In rearing a vigorous yeomanry and soldiery, in re- 
 taining Catholicism while rejecting popery, in rejecting 
 Catholicism when it came to trample with rough shoes on 
 truth and liberty, in translating the Bible, in weakening 
 the power of Spain and Austria, and lending support to 
 the Protestants of Holland and Germany, in awakening 
 the spirit of adventure and discovery, in spreading colonies 
 that have awakened commerce and spread the borders of 
 civilization, in fighting at home and abroad bloody battles 
 
 10 
 
for human right these are some of the things England 
 had done before the United States came into being. 
 
 And let me still keep before you that England's 
 greatness lies in the constant meeting and settlement of 
 such issues. And in accordance with her system these 
 issues are met in the contrasted legislative acts of her two 
 great parties. The issues are decided by the policy of 
 this, for the present, ruling party and mind. This may 
 be a mind influenced by a stern and rigid desire for 
 truth, which anticipates public need and moulds public 
 sentiment, as for instance Mr. Gladstone's ; or it may be 
 the dashing policy of a Disraeli "anything to aggrandize 
 England." But mark you it is the contrasted battle that 
 duty wages with difficulty, that goodness wars with 
 error, with which promptness and fidelity lay hold of 
 and overcome work that waits to be done, that renders 
 men great the world over ; the Dresden Madonna, the 
 Parthenon, the Paradise Lost, the labors of Wesley and 
 Howard, the reforms of 1837 are, each and all, issues of 
 beauty, truth, or goodness of which men shall reap the 
 benefit as long as a vestige of them remain. 
 
 And it is in the making of these contrasts and 
 issues that all duty lies, out of them all greatness springs. 
 It does not make much difference whether the scene of 
 the issue be in London or Wilbraham, in Rome, or any- 
 where else, in the hall of legislation or the peasant's cot- 
 tage. If it be good, doubt not its memorial is assured. 
 "Honor and Shame from no condition rise. Act well 
 your part, there all the honor lies." There is much of 
 bitterness, of malignment, of misconstruction, attendant 
 upon a life that will devote itself to truth and right, and 
 it is seldom, until after death, that it reaps its due reward 
 of honor and appreciation. Then of a sudden lips that 
 
 50 
 
before had cursed break forth in eulogy. Charity then 
 covers defects and buries resentments. Political oppo- 
 sition smirches the character of its opponents nowhere 
 more bitterly and keenly than in England. But the silent 
 spirit of Westminster Abbey seems to rest just a little 
 above the same hoary heads to crown them in a moment 
 with deathless and spotless glory. So Pitt sank to his 
 unsullied rest, dying suddenly there amid the very clamor 
 of the opposing house ; so Disraeli passed suddenly to his 
 rest. 
 
 No prophet now living can stand within St. Steph- 
 en's gateway, the entrance to the House of Parliament, 
 and cast England's horoscope. What shall be done with 
 Ireland? Will England long maintain her Indian 
 supremacy? Shall Canada become independent? Who 
 shall control the Congo, Suez, and Panama? What 
 changes are to take place in the regency? Will the 
 House of Lords be abolished? Are the titled land own- 
 ers to be robbed of their nobility and land monopoly? 
 These are some of the issues England has to meet. In 
 some of the questions men are yet to find the materials 
 for their greatness. 
 
 But here also, within this venerable abbey, unworthy 
 men are perpetuated in memorials gaudy and hollow as 
 their own vile nothingness, while others again, worthy 
 in all respects, are left forgotten. Here are no reminders 
 of Philip Sidney, Christopher Marlowe, Robert Burns, 
 Walter Scott, Coleridge, Keats, and Shelley. Many of 
 the varied monuments too have not the holy dust near 
 by to correspond to them. Shakespeare's body lies un- 
 der the old church by the flowing Avon in Stratford, 
 Milton is buried at St. Giles in the city, Goldsmith in 
 
 51 
 
the Temple, Gray in the seclusion of the country church- 
 yard at Stoke Poges near Windsor. 
 
 Still, one may feel that it is the privilege of a life- 
 time to stand above the dust of Chaucer, whose tomb 
 seems like another Mecca in the signs of the innumer- 
 able feet that have trodden it; to be above the dust of 
 "rare Ben Jonson" to feel the skepticism of our day 
 rebuked in the noble words inscribed above the poet 
 Spenser: "Here lies, expecting the second coming of 
 our Savior Christ Jesus, the body of Edmund Spenser, 
 the prince of poets in his time, whose divine spirit needs 
 no other witness than the works he left behind him." 
 
 Standing there amid these monuments of mingled 
 excellence you ask yourself, in pain perhaps : And is it 
 then true that after their noblest services, their highest, 
 purest flights of fancy, legislators, reformers, and poets 
 may be left unremembered ? It may seem so. But the 
 man who desires to do noble deeds should learn here 
 that the real monuments of the great dead are not alone 
 upon the walls and floors of this or any such imposing 
 mausoleum. The good and great are buried in appre- 
 ciative hearts, and hence bloom forth, as ages wear away, 
 flowers of undying affection. For today as when Peri- 
 cles uttered it over the Athenian dead, more than two 
 thousand years ago, this sentiment is true, that "the 
 whole earth is the sepulchre of illustrious men, and not 
 only is their work inscribed on columns in their own 
 land but dwells rather with every one in unwritten mem- 
 orials of the heart." 
 
 Forget not this then, oh, my soul, as thou leavest 
 these lonely cloisters, as thou walkest, perhaps for the 
 last time, from out the glory of these holy windows, from 
 
under the sombre protection of stately groined arches 
 crumbling under the tooth of time. 
 
 Our visit to the Old World is ended, our ship well 
 out to sea. The quiet loneliness of Scotch and English 
 lakes, the mountain scenery of Switzerland and the even, 
 vine-clad fields of sunny France blend, in our memory, 
 with cathedrals, castles and galleries all together form- 
 ing an impression of a vaguely remembered, heavenly 
 dream. The land has sunk from sight, does not the 
 heart sink also? Holy Head Mount is passed at a great- 
 er distance and partly enveloped in a drizzle of rain and 
 fog, not glorious now as on that afternoon in early sum- 
 mer. The hills of Queenstown do not wear any more 
 that unspeakable loveliness that they present to the eye 
 which for days has only waters, waters and to which 
 land becomes a delicacy absolutely unspeakable. 
 
 We throw ourselves again upon the mercy of the 
 waters with head toward our home land. A land it is 
 as yet devoid of legend and romance, never destined per- 
 haps to furnish the traveller such tales as linger about 
 the old castles that we are leaving behind us. A land it 
 is with few historic battlefields, but it is a land, thank 
 God, with no incubus upon it of old time customs and 
 class distinctions. Possessing the best results of past 
 European struggles for liberty and religion, explored and 
 settled under the. impulse and influence of religion, its 
 civil and religious institutions grounded on the fear of 
 Almighty God, Truly of such a land may we well be 
 proud ! 
 
 And at last one night we anchor off that goodly 
 shore, next morning we see to right and left that land 
 
which, when we had left it a few weeks before, had 
 glowed with a furnace heat. But how seems it now ? Is 
 this a paradise that we have come upon? The grass is 
 golden under the summer sun, the trees are waving with 
 grace and beauty, it is like the view from Norwich 
 Castle and Chatsworth meadows. Glorious land ! 
 Home! 
 
 But then comes the larger thought: the old world 
 is gone, the ocean crossed, the ship left, and now the 
 small unremembered place and insignificant round of 
 duty. Forget not this and say it often : "Meet thou thy 
 issues and leave with God and the good thy record." 
 Hands across the sea, your own beloved land there is a 
 larger land yet, broader, ideal, farspread as humanity 
 itself : 
 
 "Where is the true man's fatherland? 
 
 Where'er a human spirit strives 
 After a life more true and fair, 
 There is the true man's fatherland." 
 
 Written in May, 1883, an & rewritten in its present 
 form December, 1884. 
 
 II. FANNY BURNEY AND HER TIMES 
 
 The Eighteenth Century, so far as it concerns the 
 literary history of England, is restful and instructive ; its 
 real characters are often quite fictitious, and its fictions 
 very real. It is the period of Samuel Johnson, Squire 
 Western, Robinson Crusoe, Pope, Roger de Coverley, 
 Goldsmith, Dr. Primrose, Addison, and many others. Of 
 all the spots in literary history that precede our own 
 bustling times it is perhaps the most delightful. Ours 
 
 54 
 
is a hustling, boastful, thankless, forgetful, conceited 
 period. Let us ramble away from it a little while. Ma- 
 terial forces have been revealed and human forces are 
 being organized in our day. Our times have extended 
 men's horizons too far; have taught us to produce too 
 many things and too rapidly; have taught us to travel 
 too fast and hear too far; have started problems, indus- 
 trial, social, religious, exhilarating all this, no doubt, but 
 necessitating readjustments such as we have not con- 
 ceived and generating evils such as the pessimistic have 
 not presaged. With our period began a ''Novus ordo 
 Saeclorum," that is not the immediate forerunner of the 
 millenium. It is not the things made possible by steam 
 and electricity, but the larger possibilities revealed in 
 man. 
 
 Several men of our day equal whole regiments. 
 The average man has fallen in value. The individu- 
 ality is gone from him. Let us away then with these 
 times. 
 
 "With slower pen men used to write 
 
 Of old when letters were 'polite;' 
 In Anna's or in George's days 
 They could afford to turn a phrase 
 
 Or trim a straggling theme aright. 
 
 "They knew not steam; electric light 
 Not yet had dazed their calmer sight; 
 They meted out both blame and praise 
 With slower pen." 
 
 "Too swiftly now the hours take flight, 
 What's read at noon is dead at night; 
 Scant space have we for Art's delays 
 Whose breathless thought so briefly stays; 
 We may not work ah, would we might! 
 
 With slower pen." Dobson. 
 
 55 
 
In this earlier time there prevailed a more marked 
 individuality in men, an all-roundness which our time is 
 fast levelling and obliterating. There was a distinctive- 
 ness in architecture, a variety and brilliancy in dress, 
 while in our days we have sunk to a uniformity in color 
 and cut. Even poor priests and pedagogues were per- 
 sonalities then. How different from that century of Lili- 
 put is this of Brobdingnag. Men now combine their in- 
 terests. We have trusts in trade, machinery in politics, in- 
 stitutional churches. Then it was the little parish 
 church, the six-by-nine trader's shop, the home, the inn, 
 the club ; it was the time of tea, comfort, domesticity ; of 
 letters, essays, gossips, and, as Thackeray says, "of 
 small-beer chronicles without end." 
 
 The characters, real or fictitious, are strikingly in- 
 dividual. It may be the good old king, or his still bet- 
 ter queen. It may be Boswell, the prince of biograph- 
 ers, whom fools have called a fool. It may be Squire 
 Western whose appearance makes decent people stop up 
 their ears. 
 
 In the diaries of Fanny Burney you may peep behind 
 the curtains of the royal household. Exactly at the same 
 hour the good king kisses his daughters good night. 
 With equal regularity the royal night-cap is put on. 
 Their majesties walk at exactly the same hour on Wind- 
 sor terrace and look across that charming bit of country 
 the Thames at their feet, Eton campus on its farther 
 bank, "the distant spires and antique towers" a little 
 further off, and Stoke Poges only three or four miles 
 away. 
 
 For another bit of individuality, read The Spectator, 
 stealing upon Sir Roger de Coverley at church. Note 
 his shrewd devotion, his homely authority. Or go to his 
 
 56 
 
home and enjoy the quaint relationship between him and 
 his chaplain. Sir Roger is a good deal more real than 
 Pope or Swift, or many other men who moved in clothes. 
 
 Perhaps one of the most individualistic pictures of 
 the Eighteenth Century is at Olney. One edition of 
 Cowper has a charming vignette, not more than one and 
 one half by two inches, a real Eighteenth Century touch, 
 It embraces a full mile sweep of the quiet Ouse, with 
 here and there a little island in the stream. On the left 
 is a country road leading over a gentle knoll which partly 
 concealed the village a mile away. The church, how- 
 ever, can be seen and, back of it, the country stretching 
 indefinitely away. There John Newton preached and 
 Cowper worshipped. Step into the quiet parsonage. 
 There is the sensitive, sometimes partly demented, poet ; 
 the trim-ribboned cap which his cousin, Lady Hesketh, 
 made him, is on his head. Perhaps he is playing with 
 his tame hares; certainly he is smoking his pipe; per- 
 haps he is perusing the small installment of books which 
 came from London in the last coach; likeliest of all, he 
 is at the open fireplace, his house-keeper, Mary Unwin, 
 at his side, and we hear his whisper : 
 
 Mary! I want a lyre with other strings, 
 
 Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew, 
 
 An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new 
 
 And undebased by praise of meaner things, 
 
 That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings, 
 
 I may record thy worth with honour due, 
 
 In verse as musical as thou art true, 
 
 And that immortalizes whom it sings. 
 
 But thou hast little need. There is a book 
 
 By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, 
 
 On which the eyes of God not rarely look, 
 
 A chronicle of actions just and bright; 
 
 57 
 
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, 
 
 And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine." 
 
 These are two or three of the scores of pictures one 
 might draw, so characteristic of that simple, homely time. 
 
 But, strange to say, this is a period that has been 
 much talked against, owing perhaps to the upheaval 
 across the Channel, owing, in part, also, to the preaching 
 of Whitefield and the Wesleys who called the rottenness 
 of that age sin and its offenders sinners. But the cen- 
 tury that gave birth to The Vicar of Wakeiield, to the 
 Elegy in a Country Churchyard, to When All Thy Mer- 
 cies and The Spacious Firmament, that sent into the world 
 "Penelope Boothly," "Innocence," and "The Neapolitan 
 Fisher Boy," the man who gave that century a wholly 
 bad reputation bears a large burden of responsibility. 
 
 We come at the Eighteenth Century easily through 
 Irving and Thackeray. The Sketch Book and Brace- 
 bridge Hall are an excellent introduction. "It was 
 while the present century was yet in its teens," as you 
 will recollect, that Amelia Sedley with her dear, confid- 
 ing friend, Rebecca Sharp, left Miss Pinkerton's school, 
 to try the realities of a cold world. It was to Vauxhall 
 gardens that Joseph Sedley took Becky when he got so 
 dreadfully fuddled. It was to Vauxhall that the con- 
 ceited, aimless, puppy (his mother's blue blood) Arthur 
 Pendennis took the confiding little Fanny Bolton and met 
 Costigan, drunk, at the gate. 
 
 Thackeray's writings from beginning to end, and 
 particularly Esmond and Pendennis, teem with references 
 to the Eighteenth Century. Thackeray, .ki all his sym- 
 pathies, lay the other side of 1801. Taking his liter- 
 ary and artistic gifts at their proper estimate, he is a 
 compound of Johnson, Addison, Swift, Steele, Hogarth, 
 
 58 
 
Beich and many others. Thackeray has heart and head 
 and sense and wit enough to take in all the features of 
 that period; so much so that there is not a human trait, 
 nor a local setting of any account which he has not pho- 
 tographed. 
 
 Let us remember that we are, this evening, roaming 
 at large in that earlier London. We are not aspiring to- 
 ward literary criticism. There are to be no comparisons 
 between the retiring little author of Evelina and her 
 more learned and stately sisters of our later time. 
 There are wide gulfs between little Fanny Burney and 
 colossi like Madame Sand, George Eliot, or Mrs. Hum- 
 phrey Ward. 
 
 It was the intention of this paper to awaken an in- 
 terest in the period, in the places, in the customs, in the 
 friends and the family, and so, in the personality and the 
 writings, of Fanny Burney. You would throw down the 
 novels Evelina and Cecilia at once as insipid, if you had 
 taken them up without previous preparation. It is the 
 pou sto that we are seeking, or rather the background 
 on which to throw our little figure. 
 
 The London of the last century was in striking con- 
 trast to that of today. Set the Londoner of King 
 George's day down in St. Paul's Churchyard, or at Tra- 
 falgar Square, and nearly every object and about every 
 activity would be new and strange to him. The streets, 
 for instance, broad, paved, clean, and well-lighted; the 
 immense buildings; the modes of conveyance, particu- 
 larly the hellish locomotives with their roar and speed 
 and immense tonnage ; the heavy drays ; the tram-cars ; 
 the hansoms, bicycles, and autos, these would astound 
 him. He would find many commodities unheard of in 
 his time. He would be impressed with the immense, yet 
 
 59 
 
comparatively noiseless, crowds. He would see an or- 
 ganized and much enlarged activity. He would miss 
 the narrow, winding streets, the picturesque house-fronts, 
 the latticed windows, the small-windowpanes, the swing- 
 ing signs, the dripping eaves. 
 
 "Sir," said Johnson to Boswell, "the happiness of 
 London is not to be conceived but by those who have 
 been in it." When Wordsworth invited Lamb to the 
 Lake Region, Lamb wrote back: "I have passed all my 
 days in London until I have found as intense local attach- 
 ments as any of you mountaineers can have done with 
 dead nature. The lighted shops of the Strand and Fleet 
 Streets, the innumerable trades, traders, and customers; 
 the play-houses, the watchmen, the drunken scenes; life 
 awake if you are awake at all hours of the night; the 
 sun shining on houses and pavements, on print-shops, on 
 old book-stalls, on parsons cheapening books, on coffee- 
 houses, steams of soups from kitchens, these things 
 work themselves into my mind and feed me without the 
 power of satisfying me." 
 
 The London of that day was quite as busy in its way 
 as now. It was a noisy London and we may get a vivid 
 idea of it from The Spectator, Walter Besant has most 
 vividly described it in his London of Charles II. and 
 George II., and remarks that a modern would be crazed 
 by one day's experience in this earlier London. 
 
 When the shop boy a hundred and fifty years ago 
 put up the shutters and started off at night for a lark, 
 he had places enough to go. On the outskirts over 
 which the city has long since spread herself were bowl- 
 ing-alleys, and beer-gardens where one might enjoy var- 
 ious entertainment, such as rope-walking, tumbling and 
 pantomime ; plenty of chances to spend your money on 
 
 60 
 
tarts and to find your pockets picked perhaps before the 
 evening had passed. 
 
 Society in those days had much of the affectation 
 and insincerity which are still its prominent characteris- 
 tics. There was considerably more refinement of car- 
 riage and gesture, but address was more outspoken and 
 brusque. This is a subject not to be omitted by one who 
 would enjoy the writings of Miss Burney. 
 
 The royal household gave the key to the manners of 
 the upper grades of society then as now; and in coarse, 
 vulgar morals, all the Georges, the third excepted, were 
 of so low a standard that one may without profanity echo 
 the sentiment of an English wag who wrote: "When 
 George the Fourth from earth descended, God be 
 praised, the Georges ended." 
 
 The great characters of the leading novelists of that 
 day are all more or less coarse ; some are vulgar and 
 brutish. Lovelace was wonderfully accomplished, but 
 a seducer. Tom Jones was a conscienceless daredevil. 
 Sophy Western's loveliness is smirched by contact with 
 such a man. Her father, Squire Western, damns for all 
 clean-minded readers what is otherwise as strong a novel 
 as we possess. 
 
 This coarseness and vulgarity crops out in some of 
 the leading men of the century. After describing a din- 
 ner scene at the residence of one of the nobility, Thack- 
 eray makes a reflection like this : " Fancy the moral con- 
 dition of that society in which a lady of condition joked 
 with the footman, and carved a sirloin, and provided be- 
 sides, a great shoulder of veal, a goose, a hare, a rabbit, 
 chicken, partridges, black-puddings and a ham for a din- 
 ner for eight Christians. Fancy a colonel of the Guards 
 putting his hands into a dish of apricot fritters and help- 
 
 61 
 
ing his neighbor, a young lady du monde. Fancy a noble 
 lord calling out to the servants, before the ladies at his 
 table : 'Hang expense ! Bring us a ha' porth o 1 cheese.' 
 What, what could have been the condition of that polite 
 world in which people openly ate goose after plum pud- 
 ding, and took their soup in the middle of the dinner?" 
 
 From the journal of a fine lady of those days, is the 
 following extract : "Thursday : played with the Duchess 
 of Richmond and lost fifty guineas. Friday : the party 
 lasted till nearly eleven. I won four guineas. Sunday : 
 eight P. M. went to Mrs. Harrises, and lost five and twen- 
 ty guineas at loo." Occasionally is a little addendum : 
 "Read three chapters in Revelations." "Read a little in 
 the Bible and went to bed." This of course was to scare 
 off the old fellow with the horns. 
 
 Among the prominent characters of the Eighteenth 
 Century are Dr. Charles Burney, author of a History of 
 Music, and his daughter, Frances, author of Evelina. 
 The works left by Miss Burney, particularly her novels, 
 Evelina and Cecilia, together with the Early Diaries, are 
 among the literary treasures of the latter half of the 
 Eighteeenth Century. 
 
 Here was a young lady who never had the advant- 
 age of an education outside her own home, at boarding 
 school or college, and yet she wrote a novel which at- 
 tracted the interest of the literary world, and caused the 
 greater men of the period to seek her acquaintance and 
 say the most complimentary things. Burke, Gibbon, 
 Johnson, Reynolds, and scores of others came to pay 
 their court to a young lady of twenty-five who had writ- 
 ten, she knew not what and had made for herself an 
 enviable place in English Literature. One must briefly 
 sketch the more prominent influences under which such 
 
a mind gradually developed, in order to estimate the 
 character and the permanence of its work. I have 
 rambled at large with this in view. 
 
 Miss Burney was born at Lynn Regis, in Norfolk- 
 shire, in 1752. When she was eight years old, her father 
 moved to London and took up his abode in Poland Street, 
 in the north part of the city. Dr. Burney was a very love- 
 ly man. One can see from the representations of his face 
 that he was a man of unusual talents, genius, warmth, 
 and sensitiveness. He was also a very active man and 
 very optimistic. 
 
 Through the influence of Dr. Arne and by associa- 
 tion with Handel and many other great musicians, he 
 arose, from the condition of a poor and unknown boy, 
 to be courted at length by the greatest men of all profes- 
 sions and of the highest rank in England ; so much so 
 that far more great people could be seen going into the 
 little house of Dr. Burney on St. Martin Street, Leices- 
 ter Square, than were seen during the same length of time 
 entering the gate of Buckingham Palace or the resi- 
 dence of the nobility on Carlton Terrace. Dr. Burney 
 was employed in giving music lessons from early 
 morning until well into the evening. But when at 
 home, he was the sunshine of the household, a house- 
 hold which was uniformly sunny and happy. 
 
 Fanny writes in her diary, at twenty-one : "The 
 world is very ill-used in being called a bad one. If peo- 
 ple did but know how to enjoy the blessings they meet, 
 they would learn that our share of misfortunes very often 
 serves but to enhance their value." On the same day, 
 she writes of her father: "The longer I live and the 
 more I see of the world, the more am I astonished and 
 delighted at the goodness, the merit, and the sweetness 
 
 63 
 
of that best of men. All that is amiable added to all 
 that is agreeable; everything that is striking added to 
 everything that is pleasing: learning, taste, judgment, 
 wit, humour, candour, temperance, patience, benevo- 
 lence, every virtue under the sun is his." And the hard- 
 headed Samuel Johnson confirms this judgment. He 
 says : "I love Burney. My heart goes out to meet him. 
 Burney is a man for all the world to love. I much 
 question if there is in the world another such man." 
 Burney was, in some senses, the pet man of his century 
 and time in England. It was said of him, that "he 
 gained and kept the greatest number of friends." 
 
 It had been Dr. Burney's intention at one time to 
 give the world an account of his long and chequered life. 
 We can readily see now what a rich treasure of con- 
 temporary gossip it would have been. The purpose was 
 never carried out, but Fanny Burney, that is Madame 
 D'Arblay, in her old age, spent years in looking over his 
 correspondence and remains, and at that time destroyed 
 vast stores of materials, which our age, greedy for the 
 raw materials of history, would seize on with the most 
 eager avidity. In fact, as it is, what remains of the so- 
 called "Burney Collection" is regarded as among the 
 richest treasures of the British Museum, spoken of much 
 as are the Elgin Marbles or the Assyrian tables. 
 
 Such a father then was a history in himself. The 
 house was, in a sense, a great university. To be there 
 was to imbibe some of the advantages of a most liberal 
 education. Fanny was fully conscious of this. In her 
 seventeenth year, she breaks out like this : "We have a 
 library which is a everlasting resource when one is at- 
 tacked by the spleen, and in short I have all the reason 
 that mortal had to be contented with my lot, and I am 
 
 64 
 
contented with, I am grateful for it. If few people are 
 more happy, few are more sensible of their happiness." 
 She then breaks out into an extended eulogy of her 
 father and into a burst of thanksgiving to God for such 
 a gift. 
 
 Lord Macaulay, in his famous essay On the Diary 
 and Letters of M. D'Arblay, takes Dr. Burney to task for 
 having neglected Fanny's education. But the diarist 
 does not at all agree with this, and Dr. Burney's entire 
 conduct to his daughter disproves it. 
 
 If her education was neglected, so was John Stuart 
 Mill's, Edward Gibbon's, Herbert Spencer's. It had been 
 Dr. Burney's intention to send Fanny to Paris, but the 
 sudden death of Mrs. Burney, in Fanny's ninth year, in- 
 definitely delayed and finally rendered it impossible. 
 
 But just imagine a susceptible girl off at boarding 
 school, while, meanwhile, at her home, drops in of an 
 evening Edmund Burke, the most learned if not most 
 eloquent statesman of any age; or perhaps Dr. Johnson, 
 of more power in English Society than the combined 
 forces of king and parliament; or Garrick to act in pri- 
 vate some distinguished character, before presenting it a 
 few minutes later at Covent Garden or Drury Lane ;or per- 
 haps there dropped in a neat little gentleman, somewhat 
 under the average height, of gentle manner, with large 
 face, larger nose, natural hair falling down his shoulders 
 in graceful curls, who yesterday came to town from Bris- 
 tol where he had preached to an audience of not less than 
 twenty-five thousand people, in some respects the great- 
 est man in the history of the church since Saul of Tar- 
 sus, Mr. John Wesley. Think of being absent from 
 such influences, at a boarding school. 
 
 65 
 
And there is education in the neglect that allows a 
 young boy or girl to roam at large in a great library ; to 
 browse at will under judicial direction. The fussy 
 school master does not frighten knowledge out of them, 
 or, what is worse, get it into them the wrong way. 
 
 Fanny Burney's education was of this character. 
 One May, in her sixteenth year, she makes this record : 
 "I have this moment finished reading a volume called 
 The Vicar of Wakefield. It was wrote by Dr. Gold- 
 smith. His style is rational and sensible. The descrip- 
 tion of the rural simplicity of Dr. Primrose, his simple 
 unaffected contentment, and domestic happiness, gave 
 me much pleasure. It appears to me impossible that any 
 one should read this book through with a dry eye ; at the 
 same time, the best part of it is that which turns grief 
 out of doors." Those words show discrimination. 
 
 When sixteen years old she writes : "We live here, 
 generally speaking, in a very regular way. We breakfast 
 always at ten and rise as much before as we please, we 
 dine precisely at two drink tea at six and sup exactly 
 at nine. I make a kind of rule never to indulge myself 
 in two most favorite pursuits reading and writing in 
 the morning. No, like a very good girl, I give that up 
 wholly to needle-work, by which means my reading and 
 writing in the P. M. is a pleasure I cannot be blamed for 
 by my mother, as it does not take up the time I ought 
 to spend otherwise." 
 
 This shows a reader who did not dissipate in books, 
 Here again: "I am reading Plutarch's Lives. His 
 own, wrote by Dryden, has charmed me beyond expres- 
 sion. I exceedingly rejoice that I did not read them be- 
 fore now, as I am every day more able to enjoy them." 
 
 66 
 
She speaks of her joy at reading translations of the 
 Iliad and Odyssey and later of the pleasure with which 
 she took up Italian. Then she says : "I rise at five, six, 
 or seven my latest hour. I have just finished Middle- 
 ton's Cicero, which I read immediately after Hooke's 
 Roman History. It is a delightful book. The style is 
 manly and elegant ; and, though he may be too partial to 
 Cicero, the fine writings he occasionally translates of that 
 great man, authorize and excuse his partiality." This is 
 sound criticism of a book which is still a classic. She 
 reads the Henriade of Voltaire, a little later, and gives 
 it a scathing criticism. 
 
 From these few citations you perceive a young mind 
 getting for itself the elements of a liberal education, fill- 
 ing in the bud so soon to burst in delicate blossom. She 
 reads the languages, reads with discrimination and di- 
 gests what she reads. Her father's loveliness, his manner- 
 liness two things quite unusual in those brusque times 
 together with his love of learning, had attracted all this 
 talent to their little home, and made it a sort of univer- 
 sity. Dr. Burney's industry was constant and he in- 
 stilled industry into his children. Seven A. M. saw him 
 at his music lessons; his meals were often taken in the 
 coach as he rode between pupils. Often he was not at 
 home before nine at night. And all the time he was 
 preparing his History of Music, little Fanny acting as 
 his secretary. And all this time she was stealing odd 
 moments to perfect her novel. 
 
 Fanny's father then and the blessings that came with 
 him, together with her extreme devotion to him, formed 
 the chief element in her education. Her own mother 
 died when Fanny was nine years old. She had been an 
 excellent mother. She was replaced by another, six 
 
 67 
 
years afterwards, a very dear friend of the first Mrs. 
 Burney, and greatly beloved by all the children. The 
 new mother did not believe in young girls writing, an:' 
 was the cause of Fanny's burning, in her fifteenth year, 
 all she had ever written, among other things The Story of 
 Caroline Evelyn. 
 
 We have seen that Fanny had a well-stored mind. 
 She was naturally alert and had grown more keen and 
 intense. She had a mind which took snap-shots, and 
 such a mind should make a writer. In her twenty-first 
 year, she visits Exter. She attends the afternoon ser- 
 vices in its cathedral. But the singing is so comical that 
 it spoils for her all the service. There is no organ. The 
 time is set by a weaver. The people are trying to sing 
 in parts, but cannot. The description is very entertain- 
 ing. To enjoy the description, one must remember that 
 it was the time when there were as yet hardly any hymns 
 and when the people, for the most part, sang in unison. 
 There were no instruments except an occasional violin- 
 cello or bassoon, or possibly a barrel-organ. The latter 
 could play a dozen tunes and grind out "Old Hundred," 
 "Devizes," or "St. Martins." Comical indeed must the 
 effect have been as the lagging people sought to keep 
 pace with the organ when once wound up and started. 
 Now a camera as sensitive as her mind will be daily tak- 
 ing innumerable impressions which are the best materials 
 for novels. 
 
 Another of the persons contributing to make 
 Fanny's novels a success was Mr. Samuel Crisp. She 
 had been gathering materials for writing: he gave her 
 hints which moulded her form and style. Evelina, like 
 Pamela, Humphrey Clinker, Red-Gauntlet, etc., is writ- 
 ten as a series of letters. And as we are aware that 
 
the writing of an interesting letter, to say nothing of a 
 long series of them, requires a peculiar type of mind; 
 and as Miss Burney has, among the number of her let- 
 ters, some that are first rank ; we may well glance for a 
 moment at the influences which perfected her in this lit- 
 erary type. 
 
 Samuel Crisp was a man of fine appearance, of lib- 
 eral education and fortune. His tastes combined liter- 
 ature, music, and the arts. He aspired to write a drama, 
 against the advice of Garrick and other friends. The 
 play was not well received, and Crisp retired to live at 
 Chesington Hall, not far from London, and came to town 
 only in the theatre and opera season. It should also be 
 said that, after some years of residence in Rome and 
 other Italian cities, Crisp had come back to England to 
 live on his estates at Hampton, where in consequence of 
 too liberal entertainment of too many friends he had 
 run through most of his fortune. His retirement was 
 not solely due to despondency at the reception of his 
 drama, but that, together with his weakened fortunes and 
 health, led to his retirement. Crisp's intimacy with the 
 Burneys began in Fanny's ninth year, he being then fifty- 
 five. The relation between them was almost as close as 
 father and child. The Burneys are always going to 
 Chesington and Fanny always calls him "Daddy." 
 
 Crisp's life had failed, so far as the drama of Vir- 
 ginia was concerned, but when he, of set purpose, un- 
 dertook to mould the life of "little Burney," as Johnson 
 called her, he rendered the literary world a unique ser- 
 vice. A quotation or two will show you that he had an 
 intention. Here is a short extract from the first letter 
 he ever wrote Fanny, in her twenty-first year: "Dear 
 Fanny, though the weak knotty joints of my knuckles 
 
are somewhat tired with writing to your mamma, yet I 
 cannot forbear acknowledgement of your kind and enter- 
 taining letter. You are an exceedingly good child. 
 You have good and grateful sentiments about you. In 
 short you have good things in you and I wish it was in 
 my power to bring about but stop, my pen, you are go- 
 ing beyond your line; but there are very many valuable 
 people in this wide world of ours, that for want of 
 rightly understanding one another, do not do what na- 
 ture seems to have intended they should do, I mean, 
 draw close to one another in mutual attraction." In an- 
 other, soon after, he writes : "If once you set about 
 framing studied letters, that are to be correct, nicely 
 grammatical, and run in smooth periods, I shall mind 
 them no otherwise than as newspapers of intelligence. 
 There is no fault in an epistolary correspondence like 
 stiffness and study. Dash away whatever comes upper- 
 most ; the sudden sallies of imagination, clapped down on 
 paper, just as they arise, are worth folios, and have all 
 the warmth and merit of that sort of nonsense which is 
 eloquent in love." Remember these are the words of an 
 old man, nearly threescore and ten, to a young girl of 
 twenty-one. It is not possible here to review a corres- 
 pondence which, on both sides, was rich and helpful, and 
 contributed to render Evelina a permanent success. 
 
 It would be a distinct oversight not to mention, in 
 this connection, a correspondence which took place at 
 intervals, during this same period, between Fanny and a 
 Mr. James Hutton. Hutton must have been nearly as 
 well on in years as Crisp. He was a Moravian, and lived 
 in Chelsea on a property leased by Count Zinzendorf. 
 He was a sort of head among the Moravians, pietistic, 
 but with a remarkable degree of horse-sense. He made 
 
 70 
 
himself a great friend with the Burneys. I copy the fol- 
 lowing from one of his letters to Fanny. "You will per- 
 haps recollect that the first page at least of this is in 
 answer to several parts of your letter, which I have be- 
 fore me ; though it was so impressed upon my mind as 
 that I could answer it without looking at it again. 
 Whenever you write from the heart, be assured that every 
 correspondent of taste will have reason to be satisfied 
 and pleased; and never let letter-writing cause you any 
 study. Nothing ever disgusted me so much as many la- 
 bored, printed letters I have seen, which were rather per- 
 formances than letters, and therefore, painful, stiff, far- 
 fetched, unnatural stuff. Such are all Bussy-Rabutin's 
 almost. Madame de Sevigne's are infinitely more to the 
 taste of the discerning, while Rabutin's vex and tease my 
 heart and disappoint it, and are nauseous to my very soul, 
 considered as letters. Affectation spoils everything in 
 writing, singing, speaking, books, gesture, gait, in 
 short, in everything. I have found much pleasure in 
 Madame de Maintenon's letters. They are most cordial, 
 free, easy, and unaffected. But why should I not leave 
 off?" 
 
 But, to speak no farther of the influences that fed 
 the mind or moulded the expressions of this young girl, 
 there came a day, it was the latter part of January, 
 1778, when a novel appeared in London with the title 
 Evelina, or a Young Lady's Entrance Into the World. 
 It appeared in a manner so silent, shy, and secret; the 
 news of its excellence filtered into the community so 
 gradually, then so rapidly; the demand for it at the 
 book-stalls became so great, that, considering the kind 
 and number of people who were affected by it, together 
 with the permanent influence it had on the heart, and the 
 
 71 
 
good it accomplished in the field of English fiction, noth- 
 ing exactly like the manner of its appearance has ever 
 been known in the history of literature. 
 
 This young genius, who had been advised by her 
 stepmother not to write, had burned the History of 
 Caroline Evelyn, but it was a Banquo's ghost. 
 
 In the latter part of 1770 Dr. Burney was making a 
 tour of France and Italy for his health. It was during 
 those months that Fanny had tackled again the old story 
 under the new name Evelina. When Dr. Burney re- 
 turned she had to devote all her time to him and did 
 nothing on the novel. But in a year or so he was again 
 absent in Germany, during which time the family moved 
 into St. Martin's Street and Fanny began writing again. 
 Soon the father returned and was busy in getting out his 
 History of Music. As Fanny saw her own fair hand- 
 writing come back, so to speak, from the printers in real 
 type, she thirsted to see her own story come in the same 
 fashion. So she took the story which had been rather 
 roughly finished, wrote it out in a neat hand and offered 
 it to Dodsley, who had published Rasselas, The Diction- 
 ary, Gray's Elegy, etc., in Pall Mall place. He would 
 not look at the anonymous manuscript. It was finally 
 offered to Mr. Loundes, of Fleet Street, for twenty 
 pounds. 
 
 Here is the playful manner in which she begins her 
 diary for 1778: "This year was ushered in by a grand 
 and most important event for at the latter end of Jan- 
 uary, the literary world was favored with the first pub- 
 lication of the ingenious, learned, and most profound, 
 Fanny Burney! I doubt not but that this memorable 
 affair will, in future times, mark the period whence 
 chronologers will date the zenith of the polite arts in this 
 
island, etc." Her two aunts are first apprized of her 
 secret, then her cousin, Edward. Her sisters were in the 
 secret. One morning at breakfast, Mrs. Burney, in pres- 
 ence of the girls, read the announcement of the publica- 
 tion of a novel called Evelina, going right on, in blissful 
 ignorance, to other topics. 
 
 We shall say nothing of Cecilia. Five years after 
 the appearance of Evelina old "Daddy Crisp" died. 
 Streatham was not a centre of attraction as it had been. 
 Johnson had a paralytic stroke and died soon after it. 
 Fanny's world was much darker, so many lights had 
 gone out of it. A little later she was chosen to the office 
 of maid-in-waiting on Queen Charlotte, and when she 
 came forth from that confinement it was into quite an- 
 other world, with tastes changed and health prostrated. 
 It was with difficulty she escaped the royal prison. In 
 1793 she was married to M. D'Arblay, a French officer, 
 who with Madame de Stael and others was living as a 
 refugee in England. The two lived happily together for 
 years, partly in England and partly in France. Fanny, 
 or Madame D'Arblay, enjoyed her father's presence for 
 many years, since he did not die until she herself was 
 sixty-two years old. 
 
 Fanny Burney lived in the Eighteenth Century, 
 Madame D'Arblay in the Nineteenth Century. Fanny 
 Burney was knowing to the society and customs of that 
 earlier time, she lived to see the utterly changed customs 
 of our own time. In Fanny Burney's day, the sedan- 
 chair, with now and then a cab or coach, was the only 
 mode of conveyance. Madame D'Arblay lived to see 
 the locomotive and to ride to and from the South Coast 
 in carriages drawn by steam. 
 
 73 
 
If her writings lack interest and pray, what novels 
 do not ? it is because she was of too alert a nature ; she 
 dwelt too much upon, she adhered too closely to the man- 
 ners and people of her own time. She who had received 
 twenty pounds for Evelina received three thousand for 
 Camilla, but the merits of each novel were almost in in- 
 verse ratio to the sums received. 
 
 One is safe in closing such a ramble with the senti- 
 ments of one whose criticisms are still accepted as sound, 
 and, in doing so, it is the wish of the writer to recommend 
 to you the essay of Macaulay which is among his best. 
 
 "Miss Burney did for the English novel what Jeremy 
 Collier did for the English drama; and she did it in a 
 better way. She first showed that a tale might be writ- 
 ten in which both the fashionable and the vulgar life of 
 London might be exhibited with great force, and with 
 broad comic humor, and which yet should not contain a 
 line inconsistent with rigid morality or virgin delicacy. 
 She took away the reproach which lay on a most useful 
 and delightful species of composition. She vindicated 
 the right of her sex to an equal share in the fair and noble 
 province of letters. Several accomplished women have 
 followed in her track. At present, the novels which we 
 owe to English ladies form no small part of the literary 
 glory of our country. No class of works is more honor- 
 ably distinguished by fine observation, by grace, by deli- 
 cate wit, by pure moral feeling. Several among the suc- 
 cessors of Madame D'Arblay have equalled her; two, we 
 think, have surpassed her. But the fact that she has 
 been surpassed gives her an additional claim to our re- 
 spect and gratitude ; for in truth we owe to her not only 
 Evelina, Cecilia, and Camilla, but also Mansfield Park 
 and The Absentee" 
 
 74 
 
So far Macaulay, and at the close, his remarks seem 
 almost comical, for we may add Jane Eyre, Adam Bede, 
 Uncle Tom's Cabin, Robert Elsmere, The Helmet of 
 Navarre. What a host of the best novelists now are wo- 
 men. Women's achievements in fiction during the last 
 forty years and they are no doubt in good measure due 
 to the impetus given by Evelina are the later marvel of 
 English Literature. By her achievements here she has 
 come very near to displacing her accomplished and privi- 
 leged brothers and has formed the front ranks. 
 
 Had her opportunities been equal to those of man 
 during all these centuries, would not the greatest dra- 
 matists and historians have been women ? As it is, there 
 are noble traces of woman everywhere in our literature. 
 
 No novel is readable that has not had a woman in it. 
 Long have we known that. Lyric poetry sighs its soul 
 away sometimes in sheer nonsense over a lovely wo- 
 man. John Ruskin wrote long ago in regard to Shakes- 
 peare's men, that there is always a flaw even in the best of 
 them. The plays are built really on the women. You 
 have as he says, and perhaps it is true no hero. 
 Othello would have been had his simplicity not made him 
 a prey to baseness. Hamlet would be but for his in- 
 dolence and speculative dreaming; Romeo is an impa- 
 tient boy ; Antonio is languidly submissive to adverse for- 
 tune ; whereas there is hardly a play which has not a per- 
 fect woman in it, steadfast in grave hope and in errorless 
 purpose. Cordelia, Desdemona, Isabella, Imogen, Per- 
 dita, Viola, Rosalind these are, in a sense, faultless. So 
 exalted, then, are the places held by woman among the 
 creations of English fiction. 
 
 Nay more, Providence seems to be quite on the side 
 of the ladies, for the three flourishing periods of our lit- 
 
 75 
 
erary history are named after Elizabeth, Anne, and Vic- 
 toria. 
 
 Delivered before the Woman's Club of State College, 
 February 2, 1897. 
 
 III. A BROTHERHOOD OF CULTURE 
 
 In the latter part of the last century, there was estab- 
 lished at William and Mary College, a society called Phi 
 Beta Kappa, chapters of which were established at Yale 
 in 1780 and at Harvard in 1781. It now numbers more 
 than a score of chapters. The society was founded "in 
 order to unite the wise and the virtuous of every degree 
 and of every country." It has been mainly honorary, 
 meeting but once a year to listen to a learned address 
 from some person of eminence, to transact any necessary 
 business, and to elect undergraduate and honorary mem- 
 bers. Its standing rule has been to make eligible for 
 membership that fourth or third of the graduating class 
 which ranked highest in scholarship and was of good 
 moral character. It has, furthermore, been customary to 
 elect to membership a limited number of men, usually 
 graduates of college only, who were not eligible to mem- 
 bership at graduation, but who have in the intervening 
 years done something to add to their reputation or effi- 
 ciency in some substantial way. If a man has grown to 
 be a commanding preacher, or has made a sound lawyer, 
 or a good councilman, or a sagacious educator, he has 
 gradually won the recognition of Phi Beta Kappa. In 
 this way this society has had a widespread influence for 
 good, and has been entirely free from snobbishness and 
 pedantry. 
 
 76 
 
Among the Universities and Colleges of our type, 
 there has sprung up a strong desire for a society of like, 
 or nearly like, character, to which should be eligible all 
 persons who rank within the first fourth or third of 
 their class at graduation. 
 
 The unique character of such a society and its pecu- 
 liar advantage for men who need stimulus is only too 
 obvious, but it is not unfitting that we dwell for a mo- 
 ment on these thoughts, particularly as we have just in- 
 stituted a chapter and are inducting our first class into 
 membership. 
 
 The stimulants to education are both positive and 
 negative. It is the birch rod that first makes the boy 
 smart. The teacher gets even with him by keeping him 
 after school, and as he gets older the faculty takes repri- 
 sals in the shape of reprimands, demerits, suspensions, 
 or dismissals. There is also a positive side. The Ro- 
 man school master began with crusts of gingerbread in 
 order to coax boys to learn the elements. The ginger- 
 bread for the older sort comes in the shape of grades, 
 prizes, honors, diplomas, scholarships, and membership 
 in societies, learned or otherwise. These are all stimu- 
 lants of like intent ; they aim to keep a man toned up to 
 work and true to standards. 
 
 But some of these positive and, so far as we can see, 
 indispensible incitements stand squarely in the way of 
 manly work. Why can't we have an intelligent, disinter- 
 ested man, an outsider, to umpire a daily recitation? 
 The room where instruction is given should be absorbed 
 in work and not distracted by a record of it. As it is, 
 there are on the part of the instructor occasional in- 
 advertences, unexplainable attractions and repulsions 
 which mysteriously exist between natures, and these 
 
 77 
 
make him use the marking system unfairly and unevenly. 
 I think unquestionably the young ladies outrank the gen- 
 tlemen sometimes, from the fact that we incline more 
 naturally to them than we do to the masculine persuasion. 
 Anyhow it is picayune to be putting on your glasses to 
 score the rank of a senior who, in a few days, is to be re- 
 lieved, thank Heaven, from the long years of "scor- 
 ing," of one sort and another, which he has endured. 
 He ought to have known long since the value of work per 
 se. He ought already to be absorbed in loyal, strenuous 
 work. But as it is, his lofty ambition is "to skin 
 through," as he calls it, and this because of that Eozoic 
 survival, the marking system. 
 
 The prize is even more objectionable. If it is 
 awarded for a brief competition, crookedness may easily 
 secure it. At Yale, in the old days, the oratorical prize con- 
 testants hired carriages and filled them with their friends. 
 These were driven to the hall of contest for the purpose 
 of making applause, and more than one contestant has 
 carried off the prize that way. But even where a prize 
 is given for all round excellence and after years of com- 
 petition, under circumstances where possibility of crook- 
 edness is wholly eliminated, motives will be impugned 
 and the man will hear that original and never before 
 heard of accusation that he had "a pull with the faculty." 
 
 Some of us older ones still recall the crucifixion 
 caused by commencement parts valedictory and saluta- 
 tory, philosophical, classical, scientific, and other orations 
 galore. With pleasing sarcasm, may we inquire for 
 them now in the spirit of the old song: 
 
 "Where are the Marys and Anns and Elizas 
 
 Loving and lovely of yore? 
 Look in the columns of the old advertisers 
 
Married and dead by the score. 
 Gone like the tenants that quit without warning, 
 Down the back entry of time." 
 
 These things reduced teachers to pedagogues and 
 kept boys from becoming men. Conceit of scholarship, 
 either in the professor's chair or the student's bench, we 
 are hopefully outgrowing. Education is intended to 
 create men who shall secure power to work, in some sort, 
 and who shall love work. 
 
 Associations which bring together men of culture, 
 of social power, of moral tone, have long since furnished 
 incitements in harmony with man's larger growth and 
 suited to all his later years. The older societies of this 
 sort, like Alpha Delta Phi and Psi Upsilon, have in most 
 colleges elected men on their entrance to college. It 
 was genuine inspiration for a young chap entering Col- 
 lege to be told that he had been honored with an election 
 to one of these societies. Where such a society had a 
 palatial hall, and where its men were of high standard, 
 to secure such an election was the privilege of a life- 
 time. Election to the Senior Societies at Yale, where 
 society influences are unusually strong, has always been 
 considered the proudest privilege of a college career. 
 And when the tottering, gray-haired old members of 
 these societies return to Yale at Commencement time, 
 you will find them invariably at the chapter house of the 
 "Skull and Bones" or the "Scroll and Key." Such cir- 
 cles were small, but the spirits were choice and the bonds 
 very close. 
 
 But of all societies for the encouragement of sound 
 learning, none has had so extended or so salutary an in- 
 fluence as Phi Beta Kappa. It has studiously sought, in 
 all its chapters, men of the best type. Real worth has 
 
 79 
 
secured a man membership "whatever may have been his 
 race or previous condition of servitude," "qualicunque 
 patre natus," "whoever may have been his dad," as 
 Horace says. Many a man has waked up happy, after 
 four years' hard plodding, to find within a week of grad- 
 uation that he has made Phi Beta Kappa. She has 
 offered no prizes, she has granted no parchments, she 
 has held, in most chapters, only one annual meeting, and 
 yet the influence she has wielded has been subtle, cath- 
 olic, and permeating the strongest fibre, by all means, 
 in American Scholarship. To secure its badge, to learn 
 the meaning of its symbols, was to secure a nominal, and 
 sometimes a real, touch with some of the master spirits 
 of the age. In her yearly meetings, and through the 
 mouths of her learned orators she has contributed to the 
 resources of American Literature, as many examples 
 might show, among them Emerson's address on "The 
 American Scholar." 
 
 But Phi Beta Kappa has narrowed its original in- 
 tent. They say that anywhere within the Queen's do- 
 mains, just as sure as a "Liberal" gets rich he invariably 
 turns "Conservative." Phi Beta Kappa now unites the 
 wise and the virtuous only as they are college-bred and 
 classically educated. Hence the need, in institutions 
 like ours, of a society whose tone shall be equally high, 
 but whose spirit shall be more catholic, a society not 
 satisfied to welcome the man with theological, or phi- 
 losophical, or literary culture alone; but a society which 
 shall tear down all the fences, for it is these that obstruct 
 all prospects ; which shall secure the "Unity and Democ- 
 racy of Education." 
 
 That phrase, which is part of the preamble of our 
 new society, might well be made the subject of a learned 
 
 80 
 
dissertation at some later meeting of this society. If the 
 phrase was chosen of set purpose, after a broad survey 
 of the whole field of educational history, then certainly 
 it would be difficult to improve upon it. That aim has 
 been awaited at least five and twenty centuries. For 
 education, as yet, has been neither "united" nor "demo- 
 cratic." The antagonisms among schoolmasters and 
 schools of education have been greater than among sects 
 and theologians. And the antagonisms are as outspoken 
 today as ever, though the issues are different. Educa- 
 tional theory in our own country has met with an entire 
 upheaval since 1870 and the end will not appear for many 
 years. 
 
 Glance backward over twenty- four centuries. It 
 is hardly probable that for many centuries to come fairer 
 phases of civilization will bless this world than those 
 benign influences consequent upon the rise of Grecian 
 Literature, which spread over the shores of the Archi- 
 pelago, over Sicily, and lower Italy, and the south of 
 France; which caused to be reared on many a wooded 
 slope temples, the very perfection of symmetry and taste, 
 which made every acropolis and market-place a museum 
 of art. One weeps to think how this fair progress was 
 stayed by Spartan meanness and duplicity. It irks one 
 to think how the Roman mind but half interpreted the 
 Greek spirit, and one trembles to think that the whole fair 
 vision was all but obliterated ; that Homer and Horace and 
 Virgil were barely saved from destruction in a chaos al- 
 most equalling that which preceded Creation, the pal- 
 impsest alone remaining, in some cases, to show to us 
 the almost illegible traces of what learned ignorance had 
 failed, thank God, wholly to obliterate. 
 
 81 
 
When a man sees, in the first Christian centuries, 
 the great giants pitted against each other Justin and 
 Tertullian against Plutarch and Aurelius and Lucian 
 he knows the darkness is gathering over learning. He 
 knows the light of heathen genius must be extinguished 
 in the presence of such holy men as Basil and Chrysos- 
 tom, St. Augustine, and Jerome. With the increase of 
 monasticism he sees the setting of all rational knowledge 
 and he feels the gathering of the fogs of subtlety and 
 sophistry that are to overhang the night of Europe. The 
 light of epic and lyric poetry gone out, the cathedrals 
 and monasteries were the sole guardians of a knowledge 
 gloomy as themselves. The school men of the West and 
 the Greek disputants of the East thought they had the 
 whole of knowledge. And indeed they had, in a deadly 
 grip, too, had it not been for other forces coming to the 
 rescue Bernard and Anselm, Thomas Aquinas and 
 Roger Bacon, or better still, Dante and Petrarch, Wiclif 
 and Caxton, the Stephenses, Luther, and Erasmus. One 
 scans his way down through all this dark history with 
 trembling, wondering how, in the turmoil and disagree- 
 ment, anything was saved, wondering that education had 
 not effectually put the knife to its own throat. "Unity 
 and Democracy of Education" indeed! Well may one 
 exclaim who tries to compass the real situation. 
 
 And if the day of unity and democracy in education 
 had even now come we might take heart of grace. Do 
 we then live in days of greater educational charity ? We 
 tell of a greater enlightenment and speak of a broader in- 
 telligence and yet we relegate all the past to oblivion with 
 a flippancy which is amazing. The sound of wheels is 
 in our ears. The hiss, the hum, the buzz, wholly occupy 
 us. We ungraciously think there never has been any- 
 
thing before us and that there will be hereafter only we 
 and our like. But if we looked at the whole process of 
 man's education past and future as well as present we 
 should see, that in all these sweeping changes to which 
 education has been doomed, will doubtless still be 
 doomed, there is a unity and there is a gradually ap- 
 proaching universality; seeing this we should look upon 
 the past with more reverence and upon the future with 
 more humility. Doubtless on the Nile and the Euphra- 
 tes, on the Indus and the Yangtse whole civilizations 
 have been entirely obliterated, which have contributed as 
 much to our day as we shall contribute to that far future. 
 If we look wisely and faithfully and far enough into the 
 future will not a wise charity cause us to read there the 
 ruins of our own age the refuse heap of scrap-iron, our 
 "pyramids," our "acropolis?" 
 
 In these words we have been pleading briefly for a 
 larger charity and a deeper love toward all education of 
 all phases. It has all helped to rear the structure on 
 which we are built and must build. We hail this new 
 society, then, because it will welcome the intelligent engi- 
 neer, or agriculturist, or architect, or chemist, or physi- 
 cist as heartily to membership as it will the man of let- 
 ters ; or, if you prefer it so, will welcome him as them. 
 It is the product of noble thought that we seek to en- 
 courage and reward, recognizing among these products 
 Iliads, and Pullman cars, dramas and triple expansion 
 engines, land fertilizers, or sewage systems or steel con- 
 structions. It is our duty to hold up educational theory 
 and to give it material and tangible illustration, and to 
 be in the vanguard with our enthusiasm and our charity, 
 seeking to broaden the domains of man. It is all truth 
 
 83 
 
we must seek, and of such the Holiest has declared, "Ye 
 shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free." 
 
 "It is the duty of the Colleges," says Dr. Stryker, 
 "to make iron into steel and of the Universities to make 
 steel into tools. Specialization which is not based on 
 culture attempts to put an edge on pot iron." And 
 there is a truth there applicable to every growing man, 
 no matter how gray his hairs or what the number of his 
 years. The intelligent mind is always suffering a pud- 
 dling process. It is never too late to burn out impurities 
 from any of us, never too late to add to our stock, quali- 
 ties which make us, in some sort, more valuable and more 
 serviceable. 
 
 By keeping this truth in view we shall best broaden 
 the foundation of our College; we shall better the char- 
 acter of our work ; we shall produce men and women of 
 purer and keener intellectual fibre, who will do us credit ; 
 we shall keep a solid hold on our graduates ; we shall add 
 to the reputation of an institution which has been founded 
 by the beneficence of the general government; we shall 
 give to it such a character as will leave it no longer a 
 pensioner of the state, but a stalwart child, or man rather, 
 on whom the state will be eager to bestow its beneficence. 
 Address at the first Initiation Service of Phi Kappa 
 Phi, June 12, 1900. 
 
 84 
 
IV. VALUES INHERENT TO FRIENDSHIP 
 
 Friendships play so prominent a part in our lives 
 that they should more frequently be the subject of our 
 careful consideration. By friendships are not meant mere 
 passing kindness, good manners, which it is daily in our 
 power to render to some one ; nor does the term include 
 certain temporary relationships which, while they call for 
 something more than passing kindness, do not and need 
 not develop into the permanence of friendships. In our 
 professions and callings in life, we are thrown into re- 
 lations with others, more or less permanent, and though 
 such relations are known and felt to be kindly and even 
 friendly, yet they do not develop into the stature of 
 friendships. Two men might be on the teaching force 
 of this College for ten years and be kind and friendly in 
 all their relations, but if circumstances should call either 
 of them away, there might never thereafter be any cor- 
 respondence or contact of any sort between them, and 
 that would prove they had been something less than 
 friends. Nor are our friendships a mere sentiment, a 
 thing with fictitious foundation, bred perhaps by the 
 reading of romance, intended to correspond in theory to 
 something we have heard or read of. Our friendships 
 are, if they are anything, real, and they deal with realities. 
 Our blood relationships are not to be included, for over 
 them we have no choice and they do not furnish such op- 
 portunity for development of our higher natures as are 
 furnished by what we dignify with the title friendships. 
 
 Real friendships are those mutual likings that spring 
 up between persons, whether of similar or dissimilar 
 tastes, likings that move each to seek the society of the 
 other. Picture a scene on the Swiss lakes, the deck of 
 
 85 
 
a steamer crossing the lake. On one side a group of 
 four, on the other a group of five. In the latter group, 
 a young Harvard student, nervous and restless, evidently 
 attracted by the young man in the other group. He 
 finally steps across and makes acquaintance with John 
 Ruskin, the great art critic. Ruskin says of the meet- 
 ing: "Here I found my second friend, my first real 
 tutor, Charles Eliot Norton." 
 
 The cause for such a sudden and electric thrill of 
 friendship is a beautiful secret, as yet undiscovered. 
 That two athletic young men, like David and Jonathan, 
 meeting perhaps for the first time, should strike a friend- 
 ship never to be weakened or broken; friendship that 
 caused the magnanimous Jonathan there and then to re- 
 sign all his rights to a crown, is indeed a mystery. Had 
 either been other than what he was, such conduct would 
 have bordered close upon sentimentality. But each be- 
 ing what he was, we have in them the finest example of 
 human friendship, for each had the proportions of a king. 
 
 I would not have you think that my definition of 
 friendship is pitched on too high a key, or is too select. 
 When I recount such illustrious cases as Damon and 
 Pythias, Achilles and Patroclus, Jesus and John, 
 Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More, Boswell and 
 Samuel Johnson, you say, from your inmost hearts : 
 "Yes, that is freindship ; such is the way men should live ; 
 joying in each other's successes, in each other's gifts, HI 
 each other's humanity, glad to sacrifice where sacrifice 
 is possible, open to criticism, eager for all that is most 
 excellent." And there are millions of friendships, un- 
 seen and unconspicuous which daily reach these stand- 
 ards. For the fact that men of wealth and talent are 
 brought into such noble relationshio with each other, a 
 
 86 
 
relationship which the world cannot fail to see, because 
 they are what they are, need not blind our eyes to the 
 fact that, daily, among the poor and the unknown also 
 are examples of the purest friendship, equally well- 
 pleasing in the sight of God and equally available for all 
 the noblest purposes of manhood and womanhood. 
 
 Look at any great life and in what does its richness 
 and splendor consist? In its friendships. The life of a 
 hermit cannot be as interesting as the life of some man 
 who has been much among men. And a man may be 
 much among men and yet may lack the capacity for 
 friendship. 
 
 I think this moment of two men. One touched mil- 
 lions, with the intent to do them good. But his sympa- 
 thies spread over too large a space. His ideals took al- 
 most everything out of our poor humanity, and though 
 he was a preacher, and a very great preacher, yet he had 
 very few friends. The latter did not touch one man 
 where the former touched ten thousand. But the latter, 
 although he touched a comparative few only, touched 
 them as personal friends, touched them with a purpose, 
 touched them on all sides of their nature, and not merely 
 on one side. One of these men studiously sought few or 
 no associations outside of his own profession, the min- 
 istry. The other was intimate with the members of the 
 nobility, with church dignitaries, with statesmen, law- 
 yers, physicians, professors, dramatists, artists and musi- 
 cians. Hence every page of the Life of Samuel Johnson 
 throws a white light on true friendship; friendships that 
 were frank enough to speak out their differences ; friend- 
 ships that could quarrel occasionally and yet make up 
 again ; friendships that did not taboo a man because of 
 some human failings. 
 
 87 
 
The student in college is furnished with opportuni- 
 ties for friendship such as are offered nowhere else in 
 life. Rivalry enough there certainly is in the world out- 
 side; envy enough, defamation enough among all trades 
 and professions, but with a few insignificant exceptions, 
 your life here is free from all such rivalries and there 
 are broad and ample occasions to let the heart seek such 
 associations as it will. During a four years' course, you 
 are thrown in contact with seven classes, with hundreds 
 of other young persons your equals in age, with the lives 
 of all of these a little, with the lives of a score of them 
 still more, and with a chosen few still more and more 
 completely are you brought into the most intimate touch. 
 
 What is it that men recall who return to us here 
 after the lapse of months? Certainly it is not their 
 studies. I have seldom known the most scholarly men 
 to revert to those things. They have forgotten their 
 studies as fully as they have forgotten the dinners they 
 then ate or the shoes they wore. But when they give you 
 the warm grasp of the hand and look at you with an eye 
 that kindles and burns, you know there is one thing they 
 have not forgotten their friendship. 
 
 And that is one way in which, in the long run, we 
 men get our pay for service rendered. An undergradu- 
 ate is not always as loyal as he might be. He thinks 
 that you are trying to crowd him. He is always, or al- 
 most always, "against the faculty ;" but it is not so when 
 he returns as an alumnus. Time has invariably burned 
 out the dross of other thoughts and now the thought 
 stands strong and conspicuous in his mind that, after 
 all, you were his friends. 
 
 And the charm of all the colleges located in the 
 country and not in the city lies in the close friendships 
 
 88 
 
which they make possible. We can each of us easily re- 
 count the many advantages that come from a city loca- 
 tion. Those advantages are usually stated at more than 
 they are really worth. In the city furthermore are the 
 undeniable disadvantages, of crowding, hurry, and dis- 
 trust. 
 
 There is something, too, in the very atmosphere of a 
 public school or college provided it be not too large 
 which brings out the elements of friendship in men. 
 Home does not develop them. Mother, father, sister, 
 brother, none of them is able to thaw out certain secrets, 
 certain shynesses, certain weaknesses. But a man is 
 not in college a week or a month before the avenues of 
 his heart have become open thoroughfares to somebody. 
 He has unbosomed himself in some things to one friend, 
 in others to another, and by doing so has taken in a 
 feature of his education which no department of the col- 
 lege could supply, which perhaps is of more value than 
 what he will get out of all its departments combined. 
 
 True friendships arise out of a mutual conviction 
 of excellence or worth of some sort. What caused the 
 thrill of friendship between these two Hebrews? Here 
 was Jonathan, not far from thirty, fully six feet in height 
 and large in proportion a fine presence as he stood there 
 encased in royal armor. He was as valiant with the bow 
 as his father with the sword. Many a time already had 
 his armor been crimsoned with human blood while fight- 
 ing the Philistines, the enemies of God. He was strong, 
 valiant, daring, filial, devout. David knew all this of 
 Jonathan. On the other hand there was David, not much 
 over twenty, standing there with a sling in one hand and 
 the dripping head of Goliath in the other. Dressed as a 
 shepherd, not a soldier, he had come on a brief visit to 
 
camp to see his brothers who were fighting in King 
 Saul's army. In stature he was by no means so com- 
 manding as Jonathan, but he was equally fearless, 
 equally daring, equally devout. 
 
 Here then was the primary and main reason for this 
 sudden friendship. Jonathan may have thought: 
 "Here is a young fellow, every inch a soldier, worthy 
 to be honored infinitely more than I who am a king's 
 son. He has done a deed I dared not have done killed 
 this champion, the dread of our armies/' It is with 
 some such feelings that Jonathan began to love David as 
 his own soul. It was under such convictions that " Jona- 
 than stripped himself of his robe that was upon him, 
 and gave it to David and his garments, even to his 
 sword, his bow, and his girdle." 
 
 And every friendship of life, that is worth calling 
 such, starts in that way. You are not drawn to a man 
 who is a nobody, who has not in him some promise, some 
 worth, some talent, which elicits your admiration, and 
 makes you aspire to his acquaintance. Understand me, 
 I do not mean gifts or excellences which you think are 
 going to profit you. Such things do not enter into the 
 thoughts of real friends. 
 
 If what has been said is true then bad men, men 
 with low and mean ambitions, cannot be friends. Men 
 who lead each other into sin and crime are acting on 
 principles which are too shaky to bear the noble super- 
 structure of friendship. The friendship of David and 
 Jonathan sprang, at once and full grown, out of their 
 loyalty to Israel and their fidelity to the Almighty. The 
 one was a king's son, and yet charmed to acknowledge in 
 the other, who was but a shepherd lad, a greater power 
 of friendship than he himself possessed. Jonathan did 
 
 90 
 
not neglect his father nor his father's cause. He died at 
 his father's side in the great battle on Mt. Gilboa seven 
 or eight years later. During those years David had been 
 driven to live as a freebooter. King Saul with insane 
 madness had tried in every manner to compass his death. 
 Jonathan compassionated his father, but never for once 
 did he lose sight of the noble aim in which his friendship 
 and David's had been cemented the future glory of 
 Israel. 
 
 That leads me to say that a true friendship is re- 
 markable for the trust that pervades it. It is surely his 
 own sentiment that Shakespeare put into the mouth of 
 Polonius : 
 
 "Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, 
 Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel." 
 
 And another of our poets says : "Judge before 
 friendship, then confide till death." 
 
 Have you a few friends in the world, say half a 
 dozen? If you have deliberately chosen them as your 
 friends, or if circumstances have gradually brought you 
 and them into close and confiding relations, then your 
 confidence in them should remain unshaken. The confi- 
 dence that you have built upon them demands that. There 
 is a cry that comes from within our nature which seems to 
 say : "Do not treat them also as traitors. Do not throw 
 your friends too overboard. Let it be known that there is a 
 handful at least of your fellow creatures in whom you 
 confide with unshaken firmness." The few friends of 
 our choice are a sort of hostage to humanity. We have 
 not opportunity to pay attention to all men, to do kindly 
 offices to all men, to give unfailing confidence to all men, 
 but if we can make ourselves realize the obligation of 
 
 91 
 
doing so to just a few of the descendants of Adam, we 
 give a positive proof that humanity is not wholly bad. 
 
 Our friendsips are intended, in part, as opportuni- 
 ties for the exercise of charity, as apportunities for frank, 
 outspoken utterances. Our friends should be mirrors in 
 whom we can see both our virtues and our faults. But 
 how can we see either if confidence is lacking, or if we 
 shatter the only medium which can truely reflect what we 
 are? 
 
 Friendships, viewed in this light, have at once a re- 
 ligious, a Godward side. If we slight our friends also, 
 then, pray, whom do we trust? If we cannot trust those 
 who are closest to us, then how can we trust any of God's 
 creatures ? How can we trust ourselves ? Nay, how can 
 we trust God himself? To lose confidence in his work- 
 manship is to lose confidence in Him. To assert that no 
 creature made in his image is worthy of our trust is to 
 call that image itself a deceit and a lie. That is a bit of 
 logic whose truth none of us can deny. 
 
 Let us then, I repeat, for our own mental and moral 
 safety remain true to our old time, our long chosen 
 friendships, and let us as soon think of betraying them 
 as of denying God himself. 
 
 I have but a word or two more. 
 
 People who look upon friendships as a mere matter 
 of convenience, a help to getting on in the world such 
 persons are least worthy to have friends, such persons 
 would be least likely to be true to their friends. 
 
 These friendships, what then are they? What, if 
 not God's means of doing good in the world. We speak 
 sometimes of the "tender mercies and the overruling 
 Providence of God," but what are they save "the cup of 
 cold water handed to a needv brother?" How are we 
 
ever to do a deed to God unless we do it for and among 
 our fellow men? Our affections are so many alabaster 
 boxes filled with precious ointment, and when is there 
 worth to be lavished if not upon those who love us and 
 while they love us? 
 
 Or think of all the most noble traits that have 
 adorned or that can adorn our humanity, and what are 
 they : charity, goodness, gentleness, faith, meekness ? 
 What are they if not the record of the relationship in 
 which we stand to our fellow-men? And what other 
 channels or means has God devised for our perfection or 
 the perfection of our brethern other than "gentle words 
 and kindly deeds." 
 
 Let us have a few friends. Let us love them gener- 
 ously. Let us be frank to them and charitable, and let 
 us beg them to be frank to us. Such friendships as that of 
 David and Jonathan decide the future of kingdoms, such 
 beautiful friendship as that manifested by our Lord Jesus 
 Christ why it makes us see how very wonderful a thing 
 friendship is and how through no other means has God 
 ever intended to reach and uplift the world. 
 
 Delivered in the Old Chapel, February 17, 1901. 
 
 V. THE PRECIOUSNESS OF THE BIBLE 
 
 Psalm i :2. 
 
 The arguments why you should give the Bible your 
 careful consideration are so many and so varied that I 
 shall not have time fully to develop any one of them. 
 The age of the book, the men who have written it, the 
 characters drawn there, the truths taught, the men whose 
 characters and careers have been moulded by it, the in- 
 
 93 
 
fluence its teachings have had on government, literature, 
 and life these, and more of like nature, are questions 
 any one of which opens up a vast field for thought and 
 for discussion. 
 
 Here is a book whose authors range through more 
 than a thousand years, a book which contains at least 
 five of the very greatest characters known to history. 
 These two points alone would make it worthy of consid- 
 eration. 
 
 Let me ask you to notice a few more specific reasons 
 for the study of this Book and I will take as the first of 
 these the form in which it is published. No book in 
 the world is issued in anywhere near such large numbers. 
 No book is published so expensively ; none at so low a 
 price. More copies of it are given away every year than 
 are published of any other book, even though you include 
 the latest best-selling novels. 
 
 It is the only book which is published in all the lan- 
 guages, and nearly all the dialects, of the earth. There 
 is hardly an insignificant tribe in any African jungle, or 
 any poor reminant of humanity in any island of the South 
 Sea, whose rude dialect has not been favored with the 
 translation of a part at least of this book. It has caused 
 to be constructed scores of written languages that it 
 might publish itself in them. You can buy it in large size, 
 finely illustrated, paying for it scores of dollars if you 
 wish, or you can procure it in good clear type for less 
 than fifty cents. One single house in London has, for 
 two generations, made its fortune by the publication of 
 the famous Bagster Polyglott Bibles. 
 
 My first point then is, that a book which is so uni- 
 versally used and which is published in so many forms 
 and at so many prices is for that very reason, if for no 
 
 94 
 
other, worthy of our consideration. Therefore to every 
 young man who is starting out in life I would say : "Get 
 a good Bible for yourself, printed on good paper, with 
 good print, and good binding, good maps, and good ref- 
 erences. Five dollars should buy a very serviceable 
 Bible of that description. The margin of such a book 
 may be used for jotting down any points of interest 
 which you may find in your general reading, such as bear 
 on any chapter or text. 
 
 You may increase your interest in this book, second- 
 ly, by regarding it, not as one volume but as several 
 volumes of unequal value. It is a great, a very great, 
 hindrance to the proper understanding, not to say the 
 proper enjoyment of this book, to regard it all as one 
 book. It is not one volume. It is a whole literature. 
 It is divided into two general parts. In the first of these, 
 there are thirty-nine different books by nearly thirty dif- 
 ferent authors, and in the second division there are twen- 
 ty-seven different parts by as many as eight different 
 authors. Some of these books are history, some are 
 poetry, some are impassioned eloquence, some are let- 
 ters. 
 
 But you may have been entertaining the idea that it 
 is one book, that it is all equally good throughout, be- 
 cause it is all equally inspired. Such a thought is mis- 
 leading and dangerous, not to say impossible. I might 
 declare, in like manner, that the visible universe is one 
 book, equally inspired throughout. But have all men an 
 equal division of it in its extent and intent, or can they 
 have? Whose telescope has pierced to creation's out- 
 most bounds? Whose microscope has fathomed the 
 limit of infinitesmally little things? Whose brain has 
 
 95 
 
found the subtle principles which bind the innermost and 
 the outermost altogether to make one grand whole? 
 
 If I arranged here on the platform forty books by 
 different authors, you would know what I meant. Here 
 they would be, the best representatives of England and 
 America. But it would be foolish in me to say: "These 
 are all alike good. They are all equally inspired. You 
 must read them all. It is your duty." We should ex- 
 pect a man to resent such advice as that. It would be 
 taking his conscience away from him. It would be 
 stifling his imagination. It would be depriving him of 
 his judgment. It would be for A, B, and a few others 
 to assist and dictate what is good for all the rest of the 
 alphabet. 
 
 But what would the wise man do and advise? He 
 would pick up one volume after another and ask : have 
 you read of the founding of Constantinople and the spread 
 of Mohammedanism? Have you read the story of the 
 influence of the English Bible? Milton's description of 
 the loneliness of Eden and of our first parents? Park- 
 man's account of the taking of Quebec? Motley's de- 
 scription of the Spanish Armada? But how foolish the 
 advice would be to ask him to wade through all of Shakes- 
 peare or all of Gibbon. 
 
 And so we are not to regard the authors of the Bible 
 as alike good, alike comprehensive, and alike interesting, 
 in every part, or to every person, or even to the same 
 person at all times. The wise instructor would say to 
 any young man, "There is much in the Bible which you 
 will not like and which therefore you need not read." 
 Leviticus, Chronicles and some other books are, in part 
 or wholly, dry and uninteresting. The prophets contain 
 sublime utterances, but to understand them one needs a 
 
 96 
 
large knowledge of history and years of experience. Job 
 is placed by many at the head of all literature, but its 
 greatness looms up in due proportions only as men grow 
 old and have given much study to the problem of living. 
 Many of our Lord's words are mysterious and deep. 
 One of his fellow apostles declared that Paul's letters 
 contained many things hard to be understood. 
 
 I have dwelt on this point a little longer than I had 
 intended. Allow me a homely illustration in closing. 
 When a farmer turns out his cattle to graze, even on the 
 darkest night, he does not need to hang lanterns on their 
 horns to enable them to pick out the herbage which is 
 good for them. He does not need to go over the ground 
 and cut down beforehand everything that is not grass. 
 They know by an instinct within them what is good for 
 them. And so with the Bible. If a man will but open 
 it and that is the main point if he will open it, he will 
 find what attracts and what is helpful to him, much bet- 
 ter than any one else can find it for him. 
 
 The Bible should be looked at, for the most part, as 
 a series of biographies, a series of lives and letters, and 
 not as a compilation of opinions and theology. 
 
 I think that if this book were divided into different 
 parts, and the several parts were bound according to their 
 authors, that, even then, the average librarian or min- 
 ister would put these volumes right in with theology 
 rather than with history, poetry, etc., where they really 
 belong. Moses, Samuel, Isaiah, Paul, why they with- 
 out doubt must go with Augustine, and Calvin, with 
 Luther, and Wesley. No classification could be more in- 
 consistent and misleading. Where do the works of 
 Moses belong but with works of history ? Where should 
 Job and the Psalms be put? On the shelves with Virgil, 
 
 97 
 
Dante, and Milton. And so the Proverbs should be put 
 with the essayists and practical philosophers, with Mon- 
 taigne, Bacon, Carlyle, and Emerson. The prophets 
 should be shelved with orators and statesmen. The let- 
 ters of Paul, James, etc., should stand right along side of 
 Cicero's and Pliny's letters. In other words, what is a 
 record of life and facts should not be put alongside of 
 what is mere discussion and passing opinion. Do not put 
 what has gushed from the soul as naturally as water from 
 a spring, what is sweet, wholesome, and life-giving, with 
 what is often the offspring of hatred, the very marah of 
 bitterness and controversy. 
 
 There is an immense gain in treating the Bible as 
 biography. As another has said, "It is the great lesson 
 of biography to teach what man can be and can do at his 
 best. It may thus give each man renewed strength and 
 confidence." 
 
 These brothers of ours, who live in universal life, 
 still speak to us from their graves and beckon us in the 
 paths which they have trod. And at the head of the bio- 
 graphies stands the Bible. And what is it but a series 
 of lives of great heroes, of patriarchs, prophets, kings, 
 and judges, culminating in the greatest life of all that 
 of the Lord Jesus Christ ? How many of the very great- 
 est lives have drawn all their strength from the examples 
 of holy men recorded here! What Moses accomplished 
 was for generations the inspiration of his race and is still. 
 It was the life and legislation of Moses which kindled the 
 ardor of David and gave their glow of life and love to 
 the Psalms. It was with David that Isaiah lighted a 
 torch of a purer and holier fire. Jesus, our Lord, deemed 
 it not beneath him to draw his spiritual life and inspira- 
 tion from these his predecessors. And so absorbed was 
 
 98 
 
Paul in one biography that he determined to forego all 
 the unexampled training he had had in religion and phi- 
 losophy and to know nothing save Jesus Christ and Him 
 crucified. 
 
 I say therefore again, learn to read this book as~real 
 biography. Read the sketches of Joseph, Moses, Samuel, 
 and David. Read the doings and the sayings of Jesus, 
 and Paul, and Peter. They are not long, they are not 
 tedious. Think of the whole life of Jesus Christ being 
 contained in a few pages of a book as small as this ! 
 
 There is another point: We should learn to read 
 other history in the light of the Bible. With the 
 Bible in our hand, we can best understand and fath- 
 om ancient history in particular, though, in reality, 
 modern history as well. You and I know well, that back 
 there in the valleys of the Euphrates and the Nile, civi- 
 lizations and races have been extinguished. 
 
 If we read the Bible, we shall learn why. There is 
 hardly a hill slope more or less remote from the waters 
 of the Mediterranean which does not present to the view 
 some important ruin. There is a city in ruins and above 
 it is an object the most sad among relics of antiquity. 
 Within that temple, now in ruins, for generations, a 
 crowding city of people, vastly superior in their intelli- 
 gence, offered their worship to a goddess whose influence 
 was as extended in those earlier days, through all those 
 seas, as is the influence of Christ in this later time. But 
 goddess and temple, city and worshipers are gone into 
 oblivion. Read the Bible and you will learn why. Rome 
 ruled the world for a thousand years and had come to 
 boast of her rule as eternally secure. But the New Testa- 
 ment will tell you why a revolution came, sudden, 
 sweeping, permanent. And if you want to find why na- 
 
tions now do not succeed, why parties and men are 
 doomed and damned, why an individual reputation and 
 character shrivels all up to shame and nothingness, some- 
 times within a few brief days, all you need to do is to 
 go to the Bible and you will find an answer. 
 
 In other words, history past and present, can be read 
 best and interpreted best by the standards, of life or of 
 precept which are written in this book. Within as 
 small a compass, there is no source from which you can 
 draw so full and complete an understanding of the history 
 and the customs, the habits and personal daily intercourse 
 of the peoples of Assyria, Babylonia, Persia, Greece, and 
 Rome. Daily, individual intercourse of men with each 
 other in city, town, village and country, with their faults, 
 foibles, and virtues are here drawn with the utmost sim- 
 plicity and skill, a skill and insight so complete that we 
 declare it of divine inspiration. 
 
 One point more and I am done. The Bible is a 
 book which is being constantly illustrated by other books. 
 Using it as a nucleus therefore we get a broad and sensi- 
 ble introduction to many other books. 
 
 Walter Scott was a man saturated in history and in 
 the customs of varied peoples and periods, a man who 
 wrote works of fiction and history sufficient of themselves 
 to make a respectably large library, and these are his 
 words in regard to this greatest of books: "The most 
 learned, acute, and diligent student, cannot, in the long- 
 est life, obtain an entire knowledge of this one volume. 
 The more deeply he works the mine the more rich and 
 abundant he finds the ore. New light continually beams 
 from the source of heavenly knowledge to direct the con- 
 duct, and to illustrate the works of God and the ways of 
 men; and he will, at least, leave the world confessing 
 
 100 
 
that the more he studied the Scriptures, the fuller the 
 convictions he had of his own ignorance and of their in- 
 estimable value." 
 
 And to scores of men, the holy will of God has been 
 in all ages such a source of interest and comfort that no 
 words could tell it fully. May it be ours with growing 
 interest to seek and to find these hidden treasures more 
 precious, as the psalmist declares, than honey and the 
 honey-comb. 
 
 Delivered in the Old Chapel, October 27, 1901. 
 
 VI. HOW TO SPEND MY SUNDAYS 
 
 "How should I spend my Sundays?" On this ques- 
 tion people are divided at once into two hostile camps. 
 That is because they regard this a religious question, 
 when it is not such primarily. One party is afraid of 
 losing the holy sanctities which have come to associate 
 themselves with Sunday, the other party of losing the 
 pleasures for which Sunday offers an open door. This is 
 really a matter of business, one that concerns our inter- 
 est, and our highest interest. 
 
 Anyhow, Sunday is here ; it is legalized over all the 
 civilized world, so that we need not raise the question 
 where or when it originated. It is a solidly fixed affair. In 
 the great French upheaval of the eighteenth century, al- 
 most all institutions and customs were overturned. But the 
 attempt to change the day of rest to the tenth day rather 
 than the seventh proved impossible. In other words, the 
 law of rest on the seventh day seems as indispensable as 
 one of the great national laws. 
 
 101 
 
It is well to notice this, that in our Sundays, we are 
 allowed fourteen per cent, of all our time. On that day 
 our usual employments make no demands upon us. No 
 master compels us to work. We are under no task- 
 master. On the first day of the week a man is his own 
 master. He is lord of himself. He may do what he will 
 with that day which is his own. 
 
 It is really the only day when manhood and person- 
 ality come to the top. On other days people stand in his 
 light. Burdens, enmities, bickerings make it impossible 
 for him to see properly either his neighbor or himself. 
 He is twisted out of his normal nature and course. His 
 associations carry him outside of himself. He has hard- 
 ly time to inquire into his own motives, or to judge prop- 
 erly the motives of other men. But on Sundays the 
 rush of associations stops. The connection with the 
 whirl of life is severed. Wheels do not buzz in the 
 man's ears. Get him cleaned up and in his Sunday suit, 
 and his personality, his real self, stands out a thing to 
 be proud of. 
 
 All this is true, as I have said, during fourteen per 
 cent, of the man's time. This is a good bit, when you 
 think it over. It is seven and one half weeks' vacation 
 in every year. It is three solid years in every twenty- 
 one, ten years in seventy. This is a good deal of time; 
 how shall a man hallow it? 
 
 Let us suppose that, at twenty-one, one of you is 
 taken into a business at a thousand dollars, gradually to 
 be several thousand dollars, a year. Let it be an essen- 
 tial part of the contract that you are to reserve fourteen 
 per cent, of your salary, that money not to be used for 
 board, lodging, clothing, or for any of the necessities of 
 life, but to be spent for your personal betterment for 
 
 102 
 
entertainments, works of art, foreign travel, books. You 
 see that every few years you could make an extended 
 trip abroad, or could add to your library every year a 
 hundred volumes or more of the best books, or could 
 gradually adorn your walls with works of art, your room 
 with things that would show your good taste. 
 
 That fourteen per cent, of your income would be- 
 come gradually a splendid test of you, as a growing, in- 
 telligent man. It would gradually bring out whatever 
 of refinement and higher qualities there might be in you. 
 
 The other eighty-six per cent, would go for things 
 scarcely under your control. It would be spent for 
 things in which others would have some rights and some 
 say. But the fourteen per cent, would become, in the 
 end, a blessing or a curse to you personally. If spent 
 properly and for the best things, it would, before you 
 were sixty, have gained you a certain amount of advanced 
 culture, a certain high grade of friendships and associa- 
 tions, which would gradually make your personality con- 
 spicuous, and your service to be sought after. 
 
 Now our Sundays we are forced to look upon in 
 just that light. They are valuable percentage of time, 
 forced upon us, for our own disposal, time that cannot 
 be used as the other six days are used. Perhaps I ought 
 not to say cannot, for I saw a man making hay on Sun- 
 day last summer within the limits of the city of Boston. 
 
 The first point I would dwell upon is the Nature 01 
 Sunday rest. I will not define it at the outset lest you 
 disagree with me, but I will lead up to it. We ought 
 surely to agree on this, that how to rest and how much 
 to rest are questions which constantly call for an answer. 
 The effectual rest which a man gets is the thing which 
 gives him renewed working power. 
 
 103 
 
It is worth our notice that even the day laborer at 
 present is working only twenty-eight per cent, of his time 
 a little more than one-fourth. But it is plainly evident 
 that a professional man, whose hours of compelled labor 
 are less, has all he can do to keep up with the pressure 
 that is put upon him. It would seem as though, with 
 twenty-eight per cent, of labor and seventy-two per- 
 cent, of rest, a man ought not to fall behind in working 
 capacity. And yet men are falling behind. The age is 
 overworked. More men than ever are breaking down 
 under strain. There is with every year a greater pro- 
 portion of the population in the insane retreats. There 
 are more nervous people, more nervous diseases, more 
 special remedies for such diseases. 
 
 The question of how to rest, then, is a more and more 
 pressing one. Occupations of all sorts call for all there 
 is in a man and when the work of the day is done reac- 
 tion comes, a reaction which brings the rest of sleep. The 
 man falls into unconsciousness. His powers are relaxed. 
 They are, in a sense, taken entirely out of his control. 
 A sort of death seizes him. But during the working of 
 this silent mystery, nature almost wholly regains her lost 
 energies. Sleep is a sort of rest which even the slave 
 and the draft animal cannot be denied. Mother nature 
 rocks all her children daily in her quiet cradle and in that 
 way cures the greater part of the cares and sorrows of 
 the world. That is one kind of rest, a rest where the will 
 is set free, and the whole being drifts upon the sea of un- 
 consciousness. 
 
 But that is not the nature of Sunday rest. Sleeping 
 all, or most of the day, Sunday, or even lying abed late 
 Sunday is not restful. Sauntering one's time away in 
 fields or woods on Sundays I mean, of course, habit- 
 
 104 
 
ually is not restful. Dawdling the day away in aim- 
 lessness is not restful. A Sunday turned into sport, or 
 visiting, or hunting, or idleness, is not the most restful 
 way of spending one's time. I have no question that, if 
 the indifference to religion, the causes of the criminality, 
 and shiftless idleness that exist among us, could be traced 
 out, a large proportion of them could be laid at the doors 
 of men's Sundays and the way they have spent these Sun- 
 days. 
 
 Men fall into a loaferish habit on Sundays and breed 
 thus a loaferish habit for the other six days, to say noth- 
 ing of open sins and low companionships into which they 
 are likely to fall. There seems to be a false idea and it 
 is a very dangerous one that a man is justified in doing 
 nothing at all on Sunday. But I know from personal ex- 
 perience that that is a kind of rest which will, in the end, 
 kill a man's capacity for the best work. You will find, 
 in the case of any man who rests on Sunday after that 
 fashion, that you have neither a great man, nor a good 
 man, nor a growing man. 
 
 Sunday rest is conscious rest ; rest that is taken with 
 the eyes wide open ; rest from the usual occupations of 
 the six days so far as such rest is possible. It is or 
 should be a clean and clear-cut contrast to what is 
 thought or done on any other day. That is Sunday rest. 
 It is a thing to be looked forward to with positive pleas- 
 ure, for this reason if for no other, because it is a strik- 
 ing contrast to the other six days. 
 
 The intelligent and mind I do not say the religious 
 or the Christian the intelligent man should say to him- 
 self : "I will, so far as possible, rest from every occupa- 
 tion, even the most trival, of the six days." If a lawyer, 
 let him vow not to read on that day in the daily routine 
 
 105 
 
of his profession. The same if a physician, or teacher, 
 engineer, or preacher. Let him vow that none of the 
 things which he is engaged in studying or in investigat- 
 ing on the six days shall find a place on the seventh day, 
 but shall be utterly laid aside. 
 
 This is not a plea for the Puritan Sunday ; it is not 
 even a plea for a religious Sunday. It is a plea for a 
 restful Sunday. It draws a line of demarcation between 
 this day and every other day, by shutting the door on all 
 the thousand and one things which make the six days 
 such a babel. It is the rest of entire change not of un- 
 consciousness, or of idleness. It can be taken in the 
 crowded city just as well as in the country, because it is 
 an inner rest a kind of rest that the man has made room 
 for within himself. It is not the rest where activity 
 either stops or slacks up, but where it develops itself into 
 something entirely different. And we all know that an 
 entire change of employment and thought is, frequently, 
 the most welcome kind of rest ; even more welcome than 
 entire cessation from work. 
 
 Sunday, properly spent, should be a day of spiritual 
 vision, a day of spiritual repairs. I can easily imagine 
 you saying that these remarks have carted every thing 
 out of Sunday, they have left nothing remaining in it. 
 Suppose for the moment that that were so and that I 
 should not further specify one single thing in which mind 
 or heart should be employed on Sunday, would it not be 
 enough merely to be still for a few hours and listen to 
 the silent forces that are at work within us; to listen to 
 the soul, if we have a soul; to hearken within ourselves 
 and ask what the nature, the ability, and the possible 
 destiny is of that thing within us which we call personality ; 
 to ask ourselves of what good we are in the world, or 
 
 106 
 
of what harm we are doing in it; to ask what injuries 
 we are suffering during the turmoil of the six days; to 
 ask what the general trend of our life is, whether better 
 or worse? 
 
 When an engineer has made the run from Harris- 
 burg to Altoona, his machine is taken into the yard. She 
 is put into the round-house. Her fires are banked ; her 
 boilers and machinery inspected. She is brought back 
 again, as far as is possible, to her ideal of perfection, to 
 nearly the condition she was in when she first left the 
 shops. She is burnished from pilot to tender. The en- 
 gineer feels a silent sense of her capacity as she stands 
 there at rest, though not a single force within her is in 
 operation. Speed is hidden there. Thousands of miles 
 are stored up in her. The engineer can see her speeding 
 along the blue Juniata. The winter snows are flying be- 
 fore her. She is winging her way under the showers of 
 spring blossoms or the fragrance of summer woods. 
 Thousands of happy hearts are sped by her to their des- 
 tiny. Great engine! Source and cause of happiness 
 almost illimitable ! 
 
 But how many men are there in an audience, the 
 average of whose intelligence is high, who thus every day 
 or every week either find time or make time to look at 
 the inner being, the self, the soul? They say you are 
 preaching if you ask them to, or advise them to. They 
 say you are fanatical or a dreamer, unfit for this practical 
 world. But why any more so than the engineer who 
 daily is obliged to overhaul his machine? 
 
 On Sundays a man may look at his soul, that is, 
 himself, in that way. He may look at the soul of man 
 in that way. He cannot do this so well when the forces 
 of the soul are all at work. From Monday to Saturday 
 
 107 
 
decisions must be made amid turmoil and at red heat ; mo- 
 tives cannot be nicely inquired into then. The surround- 
 ings and the nature of things cannot be closely investiga- 
 ted. The activities of the six days render all quiet thought 
 almost utterly impossible. Those days give little or no 
 time to inquire into or fall back upon general principles. 
 Just as, while running his train, an engineer cannot 
 pierce too nicely into questions of mechanical engineer- 
 ing ; he cannot trace all the reasons of things as they are 
 operating on this particular "run;" he only knows that 
 he is not making time today. It may be the train. It 
 may be the fireman. It may be the coal. It may be the 
 atmospheric pressure. He cannot now tell whether it is 
 any unseen trouble in the boiler or the machinery. All 
 he can do is to make the specific forces which are at his 
 control, work as well as they can on this particular run. 
 When he comes to examine his machine, after her fires 
 are out, he may find more serious reasons why she work- 
 ed today so much below her capacity. 
 
 Now, it is just so with man, when at work. Man 
 engaged in the business of the six days seldom acts as a 
 whole man, seldom acts at his best, seldom gets there on 
 schedule time. In his six days' life man buries, wilfully 
 or of necessity, nearly all those noble forces that are with- 
 in him. He is worldly, selfish, inordinately ambitious, 
 unfeeling, unscrupulous, and worst of all he is a mean 
 coward. To see him in the six days you would hardly 
 think he had any finer tastes, such as for literature, art, 
 or especially religion. Probe any of the professions, any 
 of the arts of life, during the six days and you would say : 
 "Men are bad ; the world is rotten." 
 
 A good way, in fact the only way, to cure this im- 
 pression is to get a good square look at man, at yourself, 
 
 108 
 
every seven days. You will find that this world is not 
 so bad after all. The poets are not all dead. There are 
 still musicians who sing or play well, and architects who 
 build well, and philanthropists who are bearing up their 
 fellows. The smoke and grime of the cities have not yet 
 dimmed the sunsets nor smirched the flowers. The six 
 days would force you to believe a lie. But a little noble 
 reading and quiet meditation on Sunday will lead you 
 into the avenues of a large and lovely world. You will 
 find the world teeming with noble spirits. All is not 
 crime ; even among squalor and poverty there are ample 
 examples of noble living. 
 
 On the six days men may say there is no God. 
 They may act without reference to God. The poor and 
 the meek are crushed. The rich and the pushing are 
 exalted. But a little quiet Sunday reading and medita- 
 tion will help you settle that question the other way. 
 How came Joseph to sucess, or Moses, or Jesus, or Paul, 
 or Luther, or Lincoln ? They certainly were not pushing 
 men, in the sense you mean. But who has now greater 
 honor? If you can find time, on the Seventh day, to 
 look at some of these things calmly and dispassionately, 
 you will find yourself wonderfully rested and cheered 
 and calmed and balanced in your every day estimate of 
 men. 
 
 Let the seventh day speak to you of the larger, bet- 
 ter soul there is in man; of the soul that has founded 
 churches and schools, that has endowed universities and 
 colleges, hospitals and libraries ; let it tell of the million- 
 aire whose wealth has turned back in full tide upon the 
 general public, not even asking a thank or a name to 
 compensate for its untold gifts. Carnegie, Rockefeller, 
 
 109 
 
Armour, Girard, Cooper, Peabody men are not wholly 
 selfish. 
 
 To make our Sunday then a hallowed day we must 
 make it an affirmative day. We must build up the soul 
 on the seventh day even though we demolish it the other 
 six days. Deny, if you will, all good in man on other 
 days, but on Sunday do the other thing : affirm all good 
 and seek for and read of examples of it. 
 
 There is no chance for spiritual vision on the six 
 days, but get it the seventh day. There is no chance to 
 stop for repairs during the six days, but do haul up for 
 repairs on the seventh day. On that day do examine 
 yourself whether you be in the faith. Do prove your- 
 self to see whether you are reprobate. 
 
 I have not been urging religion upon you. I have 
 been urging upon you only the matter of rest, entire rest, 
 from the occupations that employ you all the week. I 
 claim that in doing so you will take up the work of the 
 week again with far more zest ; while in the Sabbath 
 hours thus spent you will be able to read and meditate 
 upon examples which will instruct and mould the life. 
 You will see the soul more fully and brace it up for con- 
 tact with the world. 
 
 A man who spends his Sundays in that way, will never 
 need to ask whether they are making the best sort of 
 man of him. That question will answer itself. In fact 
 the Sunday was intended as the day which should both 
 raise the question of how to make men better and at the 
 same time should satisfactorily answer it. 
 
 The man who spends his Sundays so, will find a 
 strengthened moral tone. He will notice in himself an 
 increased religious appetite. He will notice a more lofty 
 and respectable estimate of his fellow men. He will take 
 
 110 
 
his daily work more cheerfully. He will find his motives 
 purified. He will not be envious of his neighbors. 
 
 Such, as I understand it, is the hallowing of God's 
 Sabbaths; such are some of the results that will flow 
 from it. 
 
 Preached in the Old Chapel, February 2, 1902. 
 
 VII. OLD HOME WEEK 
 
 Old Home Week is an attempt, as I suppose, to en- 
 tice home the scattered and wandering children, the 
 branches which have been severed from the old parent 
 stock. The family tree, in many cases, has been reduced 
 to a stump. It no longer grows as does the old elm in 
 Squire Merrick's meadow; it is the source of indefinite 
 cuttings which have been propagated elsewhere. 
 
 An emigrant habit lies deep in the nature of our 
 race, or of our branch of the human race. We are wan- 
 derers from the untold past behind us. None of us could 
 trace back more than ten removes before he would be 
 drawn by his lineage across the Atlantic. We have all 
 either landed at Castle Garden or come over in that 
 largest of all ship's companies, the Mayflower. 
 
 But milleniums farther back we were wanderers. 
 Our forefathers left the uplands of Asia so long ago that 
 we cannot fix the date nor declare the absolute event. 
 We know it solely by a scant legacy of words which still 
 abide, such as "father," "mother," "brother," "sister," 
 "house." These testify a very early and common herit- 
 age. By these we know that our fathers settled the 
 peninsulas of Greece and Italy, that they crossed the Alps 
 
 ill 
 
and the Carpathians. By these we can trace them to the 
 western coast of Spain, to the promontories of Brittany 
 and Normandy, to where the sun sets on Iceland and 
 Wales. 
 
 And the Atlantic proved but a temporary barrier. 
 As soon as it could be traversed our fathers were off for 
 new worlds. Ever in their eye there seemed, and there 
 still seems, to be a fabled "Atlantis," a "garden of the 
 Hesperides." 
 
 The new world has fed the wandering spirit. The 
 eastern water-shed of what is now the United States en- 
 ticed the traveller on and up until land was cleared and 
 peaceful farms were settled far up the Kennebec, the Con- 
 necticut, the Hudson, the Susquehanna. 
 
 Thus was the great Eastern water-shed surmounted 
 and all that spacious country west of the Alleghenies laid 
 open to possession and enterprise. To the wild Indian that 
 great territory was all a sealed book. But what millions 
 of wealth are now annually yielded from its limitless beds 
 of iron and coal and from its vast acres of smiling fields ! 
 What man with Aryan or Saxon blood in his veins could 
 remain settled where such fertility, such resources, such 
 scenery, lay open to his possession ? 
 
 Yesterday at this hour I was riding through that sec- 
 tion of Pennsylvania which was settled by the German 
 refugees of the Thirty Years' War. A scattered, peeled, 
 and harried remnant, how must their eyes and hearts 
 have opened with wonderment and thankfulness as they 
 traced the Susquehanna, as they traversed or skirted its 
 sublime mountain walls, as they found in its rich deposits 
 ample support for generations ! No wonder they became 
 farmers, a "dumb" people, as you might say, with no 
 commercial enterprise, with no literary tastes or aptitudes. 
 
But, oh, what a law-abiding people they were, and how 
 eager, just as eager indeed, as the sons of the Pilgrims, 
 to shed their blood in the maintenance of their liberties ! 
 Their peace has been the natural result of the horrors they 
 had suffered under Tilly and Wallenstein. Their old 
 habits still cling to them and in many families the women, 
 who are confined to home, still speak the rude German. 
 
 But what is true of the Puritans and the Pennsylva- 
 nia Germans is true of the descendants of all those who 
 settled on the shores of North America. They are all 
 wanderers and the children of wanderers. 
 
 And, what is more, the spirit of the age forces us to 
 be cosmopolitan. Distances have been nearly annihilated. 
 Steam and electricity have wrought physical wonders. 
 They have multiplied man's power at least a hundredfold. 
 Innumerable centres of power are producing force and 
 light and heat, and making our steel and textile fabrics, 
 and the thousand and one things, yesterday luxuries, 
 today necessities. In the depths of winter the products 
 of spring are at our doors. We eat, fresh from the 
 vineyards and orchards, the fruits of Sicily or of Cali- 
 fornia. A man goes to bed in New York at ten and is 
 ready to eat breakfast in Pittsburgh at seven next morn- 
 ing. Single locomotives haul nearly 5000 tons. The 
 compressor in the steel works at Bethlehem can exert a 
 force of 14000 tons. 
 
 But the greater marvel is the moral change con- 
 sequent upon all this. The opportunity thus to see more 
 of the vast spaces of the earth and more of the doings of 
 men has an expansive power over a man's nature. It 
 changes the circle of his friends and the tone of his 
 morals and even his religious beliefs. Among new 
 friends a man's faith in humanity is put to the proof and 
 
 113 
 
in my judgment the nature of the true man becomes en- 
 riched with a greater love and a larger charity. 
 
 When he sees men standing to their duties after a 
 new fashion, with less of fuss and outward profession, 
 but with just as much tenacity and integrity, he himself 
 finds new ways of attacking the problems of life ; and as 
 he finds that, he discovers also an untold richness in the 
 great underlying truths of religion, man's brotherhood, 
 God's fatherhood. 
 
 So, then, these increased facilities widen the heart's 
 sympathies, until a man is no longer a Wilbrahamite, a 
 Massachusetts man, a New Englander : he is an Ameri- 
 can. And I tell you that is the greatest of all feelings, 
 of all privileges. 
 
 But some people are too clannish to attain unto it. 
 I met an old friend of mine two years ago. He began 
 to talk about the unusual advantages offered by Massa- 
 chusetts and especially Boston. He called my attention 
 to Concord and Lexington. He asked me if I had been 
 into the new Public Library. I said to him: "What 
 about Germantown and Valley Forge? What about the 
 drafting and signing of the Constitution? What about 
 Independence and the Continental Congresses? What 
 about the great battle-field of history, Gettysburg? We 
 also have made history." He said nothing. A few 
 years ago, when East, I was purchasing some wearing 
 apparel and while the clerk did up the bundle and we 
 chatted about places, he remarked : "I am happy to say 
 that I never lived outside of Newton." 
 
 Understand, I am not finding fault with people. 
 They should remember that not every man can live in 
 Massachusetts, much less in Boston. Duty obliges some 
 men to hustle and go. They are not contented to sponge 
 
 114 
 
upon their friends. Perhaps they have no friends. They 
 are obliged to get out from country and kin. 
 
 But when such men get out of sight of land, get out 
 on the boundless prairie, they find the cosmopolitan spirit 
 exhilarating. And among the richest of their new acqui- 
 sitions is a tide of religious belief which does not take its 
 set from the beliefs of a few neighbors with whom they 
 are and have always been in close and safe contact; but 
 it is a tide that swells up out of the confidence that God 
 is bountiful enough and loving enough to take care of 
 them no matter how soon or how much conditions may 
 change. 
 
 The pastor resident here at the time of my removal 
 called my attention to the fact that I was assuming great 
 risks. I told him that my thoughts of removal were of 
 some years' standing and that many things had led me to 
 this step. He still called me rash. "If you were in the 
 conference," he said, "it would make a difference." I 
 called his attention to the man of old who went out "not 
 knowing whither," yet I confess that, even while I plead 
 my case, there were in my heart strong misgivings. I too 
 am an emigrant and the son of an emigrant. But no 
 man ever cared less to wander, no man ever suffered 
 more from homesickness, or does now at times. But 
 when a man comes to a crisis of duty such things are not 
 to be considered. 
 
 A kind neighbor said to me : "You will never sink 
 as deep a tap-root in Pennsylvania." And I half be- 
 lieved what he said. But I have not found it wholly 
 true. Ten years have slipped rapidly away and soon an- 
 other ten will pass, and I have learned that a man has no 
 chance to think of tap-roots, of affections and states of 
 feeling. He finds absorbing duties. He finds new 
 
friends who soon become dear friends. He finds others 
 also who are suffering the same conditions of change, 
 who are in partial exile, and the result is a bond of sym- 
 pathy which is unique and tender. In the village where 
 I live are at least two-score of New Englanders. What 
 is more natural than that they should talk of old faces 
 and old friends? These are the delightful bonds of our 
 larger Americanism. We are not severed from the old 
 by being brought into touch with the new. 
 
 But while we argue for cosmopolitanism, there is 
 after all "no place like home." The heart says that and 
 says it all the time. There are no peoples in whom the 
 love of home is stronger than in these Germans and Irish 
 and English who for a hundred years have been building 
 up empires toward the sunset and in the antipodes. 
 Their domestic affection crops out in their love for their 
 motherland ; it crops out in the names they give to their 
 settlements, it crops out in the build of their dwellings, it 
 crops out in their mode of worship and in their forms of 
 government. 
 
 And when these wanderers turn their steps home- 
 wards, the home-places and home-faces seem trans- 
 formed and glorified. There seems a sacredness every- 
 where which was not there in earlier times. 
 
 I visited my boyhood home after twenty-eight years 
 of absence. A visit to heaven could scarcely touch me 
 more deeply. The place where I used to play, by the 
 brook, and on the hill-side, seemed unreal. When I saw 
 men of more than forty whom I had left boys at twelve ; 
 when I saw the parish church and school and the old 
 familiar places, they all seemed unreal heavenly. 
 
 Eight years ago, after only two years of absence, 
 when I arrived in Springfield at three o'clock in the 
 
 116 
 
morning and walked about the silent, vacant streets and 
 read the old familiar signs, I could hardly believe that I 
 had traded here and there so many years and known so 
 many pleasant friends. When, later in the morning, the 
 Wilbraham hills arose to view, it seemed nothing less 
 than the touch of a magician's wand. I had always 
 thought that Wilbraham was enveloped in an unusually 
 spiritual atmosphere, but never as I did that morning. So 
 much, as you see, does the cosmopolitan spirit enrich men's 
 ideas. The new loves put the old loves a little farther 
 back, a little farther away, and so the old love loses all but 
 what is best and most precious in it. 
 
 These children of the world who are privileged to 
 wander back here today feel their hearts beat warmer, 
 feel their memories quickened under the shadows of these 
 hills and this old campus, with the sacred old buildings 
 looking down upon us and the streets and homes re- 
 peopled by the departed of other days. Our thought 
 calls back again all our old friends and neighbors and 
 compels them to play again their varied parts in life. 
 
 It is no great task to travel in imagination today, 
 starting at North Wilbraham and visiting from house to 
 house, clear down to the Hampden line. It is not hard 
 to repeople each household and bring back to their usual 
 activities those who lie buried up yonder in God's acre, 
 or down yonder in the lower cemetery or elsewhere where 
 God in His providence has scattered them and planted 
 them. The memorials of some were reared over their 
 early youth and are long since moss-covered. Others 
 left us but a few days ago. 
 
 I wonder if any town could furnish a worthier com- 
 pany or one that will be more likely to answer the first 
 resurrection call? True cosmopolitians they were, in 
 
 117 
 
that they had hearts to help all worthy comers from 
 whatever quarter, and especially to help in the education 
 of hundreds of young people, in a way quite as effectual 
 for good as the best work of the instructor in the school- 
 room. 
 
 In saying this, I am thinking only of our fellow- 
 citizens, whether living or dead, of whatever faith or of no 
 faith. The men who ran their farms and drove their 
 teams, as well as others; of the women who stuck to 
 their domestic duties; of the homes which instructed 
 children in integrity and duty. In these regards, and 
 in proportion to its size, our town is not surpassed by any 
 in this commonwealth. 
 
 I take my hat off today, and we all, I hope, uncover, 
 not merely to piety, to learning, to honored family record, 
 or to wealth, but also to the memory of any fellow towns- 
 man, however humble may have been his life, who was 
 not afraid of work of whatever sort it might be, men 
 who were slaves to work but not enslaved by work, men 
 whose calloused hands and sunburnt faces were the proof 
 that they had won a hard and an honorable living. 
 
 These are some of the thoughts that daily and week- 
 ly course through the minds and stir in the hearts of the 
 men who have been scattered from Wilbraham and would 
 like to return today but cannot: men in San Francisco 
 and Portland, Oregon; men in Denver, Chicago, and 
 Evanston; men in Philadelphia, New York, and Boston; 
 men on every continent ; for there is not a city nor a place 
 I have named where I do not think of one or several who 
 would honor this home festival if it lay in their power. 
 
 I wish I were a poet with the gifts of Wordsworth 
 or Tennyson. I feel a glory reflected from the hills, and 
 
 118 
 
have for forty years, which I am powerless to express. 
 The daisies, the columbines, and the roses have for years 
 affected me as sensitively as the daffodils did the lake 
 poet. I wish I could sing to the brook that slips out of 
 the grotto and shyly hides in the pools under the brushes 
 and crosses the mountain road and swirves down the pas- 
 ture, issuing out again to add perfection to this scene of 
 shaded terrace. And when it comes to the moral and re- 
 ligious thoughts which were born here or fostered here, 
 on that sacred knoll-top, in association with scores and 
 hundreds who are now an honor to every state in the Un- 
 ion, when it comes to these thoughts which revive here 
 and now under these auspices, who can enumerate them? 
 The occasions of good, the calls of duty, the association 
 with those to whom the call of duty was constant and 
 trumpet-tongued, noble teachers, companionable fellow- 
 students how all this comes up before the memory! 
 
 I speak from the heart today. If I were as rich as 
 Mr. Carnegie or Mr. Schwab, Wilbraham Academy 
 should have my first gift and no other school should have 
 a larger or a worthier. I do not know that I would 
 necessarily want the fact impressed that it was a Metho- 
 dist school. But I would have a school which should 
 vary as little as possible from the old spirit and the old 
 traditions of this school, a school inspired for the future 
 by its already noble record, a school where education was 
 not beyond the purpose of the average man, a school open 
 to girls as well as to boys, their privileges running head 
 to head as they always have. This old school has been a 
 positive blessing to the commonwealth for what it has 
 done in that regard. Our American Union will never 
 see the day when it ought to dispense with such schools. 
 
 119 
 
Stevenson says : "We all belong to many countries," 
 and he elsewhere says : "In one way and another life 
 forces men apart and breaks up the goodly fellowships 
 forever." 
 
 It must be so. The great country in which we live 
 is constantly exchanging its population. If a man can- 
 not find work which sufficiently compensates him among 
 old friends, he must seek new places and make other 
 friends. The Pennsylvanian comes into Massachusetts. 
 The Rhode Islander goes to Nebraska. There are the 
 appointments of duty. 
 
 But in these changes, you may depend upon it, we do 
 not forget the old faces. "Absence makes the heart grow 
 fonder ;" so much so, that we are filled with infinite delight 
 when it is possible for us to come to such reunions as 
 this. Today we look into the dear faces of many who re- 
 main, and recall the lineaments of those whom we shall 
 never see. We look into the expressive eyes of the liv- 
 ing, we feel the grasp of their hands, but only to be re- 
 minded more vividly of the vanished hands and the voices 
 forever still in this world. 
 
 We will carry the memory of this Home Week with 
 us. God helping us we will not fall below the virtues of 
 those who have preceded us ; God helping us we will each 
 depart to his own place and take hold with good cheer of 
 his own work ; and then, when our evening comes, we hope 
 to have a place up yonder and to have earned it where 
 
 "Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep." 
 
 Delivered on the Campus at Wilbraham, Massachusetts, 
 July 29, 1902. 
 
 120 
 
VIII. THE PROBLEMS OF LIFE SOLVED 
 BY WORSHIP 
 
 Psalm 73:17. 
 
 The thought uppermost in many of our minds this 
 morning is that this is the last Sunday service to be held 
 in this place. We are at a point where to stop a moment 
 and be thoughtful is not a sentiment but a duty. 
 
 In some remarks made in this chapel last fall before 
 a meeting of the Daughters of the Revolution, I empha- 
 sized the fact that religious worship is a necessity to the 
 full complete life of schools and colleges. It cannot be 
 dispensed with even by schools that are undenominational. 
 I showed at that time that exactly the same religious in- 
 fluences are at work in the State Colleges as in the Church 
 Schools, and also that the religious life in schools like 
 ours has some advantages. 
 
 The worship which has prevailed for a long period 
 in schools and colleges of the English-speaking peoples 
 has resulted in a peculiar moral and religious type of char- 
 acter. If the Englishman and American are most enter- 
 prising, if they have already taken possession of the 
 largest portions of the earth; if among them prevails a 
 greater liberty in politics and commerce ; if the unfolding 
 of the world's nobler life may truly be said to be in their 
 hands, and if they have shaken off in good part the fet- 
 ters of barbarism and mediaevalism ; it is because of the 
 marked moral strength of their public men. These 
 men, nearly all of them, have imbibed their ideals of life 
 and their strength in duty from the religious teachings 
 of the school or college. A spirit of strong and sensible 
 reliance on God, of devotion to the interests of humanity, 
 
ventures into the heathenism of Asia and into the bar- 
 barism of Africa and America, seeking a market for its 
 trade and at the same time spreading a knowledge of Jesus 
 Christ. We call it the Anglo-Saxon spirit. And it is 
 indeed the Saxon love of home, the Saxon reverence for 
 liberty, the Saxon spirit of adventure, only upon these has 
 been engrafted also the spirit of the religion of Jesus 
 Christ, causing the Saxon home life to become purer, 
 cleansing the Saxon love of liberty from the spirit of 
 license, and freeing the Saxon love of adventure from 
 barbarous rapine and butchery ; thus making the channel 
 of universal brotherhood. 
 
 Certain schools and colleges in England and America 
 have been for many generations peculiar sources of moral 
 and religious power. From the University Church of 
 Saint Mary's, Oxford, have issued some of the greatest 
 religious messages that England has heard since the refor- 
 mation. The Chapels of the great public schools like 
 Rugby, Harow, Marlborough, and Westminster, have been 
 the places where England has built moral back-bone into 
 many of her young men. From them she has sent forth 
 a peculiar class into her court, her churches, her army and 
 navy and her public life. Some of them one would hard- 
 ly call religious men, though at the same time their whole 
 moral nature was thoroughly imbued with the very 
 strongest religious principle. 
 
 Thomas Arnold stands among the greatest of the edu- 
 cators of England. But though Arnold was a born edu- 
 cator, it was, after all, in Rugby Chapel that he exerted 
 his greatest influence. The Rev. Frederich Temple, late 
 Archbishop of Canterbury, exerted perhaps as great an in- 
 fluence when he was head-master of the same school. 
 The boys who were at Marlborough during his master- 
 
 122 
 
ship, will never forget the sermons preached there by the 
 Rev. Dr. Farrar. The same might be said of the sermons 
 preached, when he was head-master at Harrow, by Dr. 
 Welldon, the present bishop of Calcutta. 
 
 And in our own country certain colleges have been 
 for five or six generations marked sources of religious 
 and moral power, moulding from the very start our Consti- 
 tution and our National life. That has been particularly 
 true of Princeton where Edwards, Davies, McCosh, Patton 
 and others have been towers of strength ; true of Obelin 
 under the moulding influences of Finney and Fair- 
 child ; true of Harvard which has enjoyed the teachings of 
 the elder and younger Peabody, of Edward E. Hale, and 
 Phillips Brooks ; true of Yale perhaps equally with Prince- 
 ton, for the pulpit of Yale College gave the key to the re- 
 ligious thinking of New England as did Princeton to the 
 Middle States, and the South. Hence when Yale moved 
 out of its old Chapel in 1876, President Porter took the 
 occasion to trace the influence that Yale had wielded 
 through such men as Fitch, Stiles, Goodrich, and particu- 
 larly Dwight. 
 
 We make no pretence to look back today over such a 
 history. We are not denominational. This assembling- 
 place has not been for religious use only. It has been an 
 assembling-place only fourteen years. And yet it has had 
 its steadying and moulding influence upon the moral and 
 religious life of those who have volunteered to come or 
 have been obliged to come and attend its worship. 
 
 It has been my privilege to worship here with con- 
 siderable regularity for the last eleven years, daily and on 
 Sundays. I think that after thirty years of teaching I 
 may speak with some authority and I say that after 
 twenty-four years of experience in denominational 
 
 123 
 
schools, I found the daily Chapel service in this place 
 regularly and constantly far more orderly than any to 
 which I had been accustomed. Indeed, it has approached 
 as close to perfection as any such service could. 
 
 So far as the Sunday service is concerned, I have 
 never been in a place where I have heard Christ held up 
 as our example so constantly and earnestly, never where 
 I have heard fewer attempts to start difficult questions 
 and make it hard for the beginner in the religious life. 
 Certainly, during the fourth, fifth, and sixth years of my 
 life here, it was my privilege to hear the most eloquent as 
 well as the most instructive preaching to which I have 
 ever listened. Those of us who heard them ought to 
 thank God for the eloquence that came from the lips of 
 Dr. John M. Gregory, and for stirring messages, greater 
 always than his heart or head could hold of Dr. Law- 
 rence M. Colfelt. 
 
 It surely cannot be out of place to recall today many 
 public occasions (Commencement and otherwise), when 
 this room has been packed closely with people, Com- 
 mencement Sundays, Commencement days, legislative 
 visits. What uplifting messages have come to us, from 
 Governors of Pennsylvania, from high officials of the 
 State and General Government, from business men, from 
 doctors of divinity, from heads of colleges and of universi- 
 ties. I trust I am speaking with discretion when I say 
 that we recall also today how, from time to time in this 
 place, our honored President of the Board of Trustees 
 has shown his warm love for the Pennsylvania State Col- 
 lege, which seems much more upon his heart than his own 
 alma mater; we recall how he has spoken to the mem- 
 bers of the legislature, when here present, of the crying 
 needs of our work ; how enthusiastic he has been in our 
 
 124 
 
praise; and we also recall that he has not been afraid 
 openly to rebuke us sometimes for our lack of college- 
 spirit and high purpose. We remember also with what 
 a steady and unostentatious purpose our President has 
 managed from this centre our college affairs ; how he has 
 here time and again unburdened his heart and laid bare 
 his purpose for the future of the college ; how he has 
 pleaded her needs; how he has seen her steady growth; 
 and how finally he saw her, last June, reach the top of the 
 divide, as we believe, and enter upon her larger future. 
 Well assured may we be today in this house of worship 
 that the Pennsylvania State College will never experience 
 hours of harder struggle or of greater triumph than she 
 has experienced under his leadership and from this place. 
 
 We recall also other influences which should not be 
 forgotten, for they have constantly rendered this service 
 not only attractive but inspiring and helpful, the unin- 
 terrupted fidelity of our chorister, the effectual help ren- 
 dered by our choirs, quartettes, and orchestras. Nor would 
 we forget that absent brotherhood part of them now a 
 silent brotherhood nearly five hundred of whom have 
 graduated from this platform our alumni. 
 
 But what particular thing should we recall with most 
 gratitude today? I speak now to those of us who have 
 been through a series of years. Without hesitation, if 
 I were to take my own thought to interpret yours, I 
 should say, "the routine of daily morning college chapel." 
 
 Some years ago I was at Durham in England, visit- 
 ing its castle and famous Cathedral. I heard the tower 
 bells tolling the call for vesper service. The constant re- 
 currence of the sixth and fifth notes of the scale sounded 
 sweetly on the evening air. I thought to myself then, 
 "How beautiful it would be if one could thus get a few 
 
 125 
 
quiet moments every day to worship God." But when I 
 got back again to my school work in America, the routine 
 of daily chapel led me to think, ''Here is what you wished 
 for at Durham. You are here following in the foot-steps 
 of those who established worship in the cathedrals and 
 abbeys of the old world. They and their children have 
 transplanted and continued here that daily service of 
 worship and praise to Almighy God which is really the 
 life of all high morality and the flower of true religion." 
 
 When Yale moved into its present chapel a fact to 
 which I referred a moment ago the President declared 
 that the daily service had been held in the Yale College 
 chapel with hardly an interruption since 1718, a period of 
 a hundred and fifty-eight years. Think of the worship 
 offered continually during all that time to Almighty God ; 
 think of the sublime religious truths, the noble moral prin- 
 ciples, kept constantly before the ever-flowing-stream of 
 youth, and exemplified in characters becoming more 
 saintly with age ; think of the prayers offered ; think of 
 the varying outward circumstances; think of the con- 
 stantly enlarging brotherhood of alumni ; think of the in- 
 spiring record made by the living and of the honored roll 
 of the dead ; think of the college-spirit gradually evolved ; 
 and you may easily account for a certain moral atmos- 
 phere not only peculiar to Yale but also to Harvard and 
 other colleges. And today, from Appleton Chapel, from 
 Battell Chapel, from Marquand and Sage Chapels are 
 issuing influences which cause us to be hopeful for our 
 best American youth and for the best interests of our 
 country. 
 
 Here, in other words, is the one truth that we have 
 been slowly building up before you today : that the habit 
 of daily worship has more power to establish and direct 
 
 126 
 
a man in the true moral and religious principle than all 
 the arguments in the world. 
 
 Arguments do not often convince men. One man 
 of intelligence seldom wins another over to his way of 
 thinking. And, really, religion is not founded on argu- 
 ment anyhow. It is an experience. It never can be, 
 never was intended to be, a demonstration. Mathematics 
 and science are in one realm ; philosophy in another ; and 
 religion in still another. Begin to think, begin to act, 
 upon the best religious truth you now know, and you will 
 come to have convincing proof of all religious truth. "I 
 went into the sanctuary of God," says the Psalmist, "then 
 understood I." He had been puzzled thinking why 
 wicked people prospered so. He had seen them well off 
 in life and not afraid in death. He had seen others 
 flocking over to their company and their habit, until he 
 had finally begun to say : "Why should I have a clean 
 heart? Why should I keep my hands clean?" He came, 
 in other words, to that condition where his feet were al- 
 most gone, when his steps had well-nigh slipped. "Until 
 I went into the house of God," he says, "then under- 
 stood I." He saw, as he worshipped with God's people 
 in the temple, as he there contemplated in quiet their 
 changing and eventful history through long periods, that 
 the wicked are punished and that the righteous are re- 
 warded, however many may be the apparently painful ex- 
 ceptions. And that is what, at the very beginning of the 
 chapter, and even before he has told his experience, makes 
 him eager to utter the conviction: "Surely God is good 
 to Israel, even to such as are pure in heart !" 
 
 The thought we linger upon, as we worship regularly 
 here today for the last time, is, that the problems of this 
 life are solved most effectually by habitual worship. Our 
 
 127 
 
ancestors knew this when, so long ago, they established 
 it and because they have uninterruptedly followed the 
 custom. 
 
 In some countries of the old world France, for in- 
 stance religion is altogether slighted or else bungled so 
 that in consequence morality is low and government ready 
 to fall. In some, as Germany, the intellectual side of re- 
 ligion is pressed and as a consequence we have a strong 
 established church, a people versed in the history of re- 
 ligion and in biblical criticism, but not a people who are 
 evolving many new religious problems or who are 
 skilled in handling questions that tend to a broader relig- 
 ious life. In the countries of South Europe the aesthetic 
 and emotional side of religion is cultivated, and the re- 
 sult is that superstition prevails and the light of truth 
 cannot enter. 
 
 But in the countries of the English-speaking peoples, 
 where worship has been long established, a worship which 
 calls into play the emotions, the intelligence, in fact all 
 the faculties of man, a worship which has come to follow 
 a custom fixed almost as the stars, a worship in which 
 new phases of truth have not been feared and in which 
 old truths have been dropped when their work was done 
 here we find peoples solid in government, sound in morals, 
 progressive and ever approaching nearer the truth in re- 
 ligion. 
 
 Ralph Waldro Emerson wrote years ago that Nature 
 had adopted into its race the abbeys and cathedrals of 
 England, 
 
 "And granted them an equal date 
 With Andes and with Ararat." 
 
 And as truly may it be said that the loving God, our 
 Heavenly Father, adopts into His heart and, so to speak, 
 into His race, all true worshippers. 
 
 128 
 
The crying need of our age, and particularly among 
 men, if we may believe the reports, is the cultivation of 
 the habit of public worship. The crying need in every 
 private life is more prayer; more devoted personal wor- 
 ship of God ; more time spent upon our knees and in the 
 privacy of our closets. 
 
 One hour a week publicly, is there any man that can- 
 not afford that? Ten minutes privately every day you 
 surely would not begrudge that. We are not asking you 
 whether you believe in God, or the Bible, or have been 
 brought up religiously, or have religious leanings or re- 
 ligious antipathies. All we say is "Worship God." Just 
 as surely as you begin and continue the habit, taking the 
 suggestions of those who have had experience, and the 
 guidance of the word of God, you may depend upon it 
 that the result will be such a revelation of spiritual truth, 
 such an increase of moral power, that you will wonder 
 how this can be or whence it comes. 
 
 You would not doubt me if I said, "Put your ear to 
 the telephone and you may hear your friend five hundred 
 miles away." You would not say, "But I do not under- 
 stand electricity." If I said, "By boarding this train you 
 may be in Pittsburgh in six hours," you surely would not 
 say, "But I do not believe that such a ponderous train is 
 run by steam as you say." 
 
 I was almost about to say, "We do not care for what 
 men believe, so much as for what men can really do." We 
 talk of men understanding better the secrets of nature 
 than they used to, but men do not know any better 
 than they ever did, the mystery of atoms, of molecular 
 motion, of wave-motion, of the source of life, of the sanc- 
 tion of conscience. Man does understand better what can 
 
be done with these secrets of nature. He does put the 
 bit upon them for his purposes, and that is the main 
 thing after all. 
 
 How long are you to wait until you see God ? How 
 long will it be until you can fathom the mysteries of crea- 
 tion and religion? Is it a century, a millenium, an eter- 
 nity? The habitual act of worship will reveal to us the 
 answer to all such questions. 
 
 The worship of anything which we regard as super- 
 natural, as greater than ourselves, is infinitely better than 
 apathy, than no worship. Better worship a fetish than 
 not worship at all. Even the worship of an Apollo and 
 an Athene lifted up the taste and the culture of the world 
 for all time to come, lifted it to a level never before at- 
 tained and never since surpassed. But to say that there 
 is nothing to worship to doubt to call everything in 
 question nothing in all our nature calls more loudly for 
 the epithet of "fool," nothing in our nature so revolts us. 
 
 "Great God, I'd rather be 
 A pagan suckled in a creed outworn, 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; 
 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, 
 And hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn." 
 
 Yes, better that every star and the great sun were 
 believed to be gods, better every mountain and stream and 
 tree had its nymph or naiad, better that all nature were 
 alive with gods again and Olympus once more reestab- 
 lished, than have no gods at all and be left upon a ship- 
 wrecked, stranded, pilotless world. 
 
 It is worship, habitual worship, that reveals religion 
 in man. It is by habitual worship that religion is purified 
 and by it it shall reach its perfection. It seems that the 
 
 130 
 
Apostle John in Revelation had pictured that last great 
 scene of perfected adoration where he says : "And I 
 heard the voice of many angels round about the throne 
 and the living creatures and the elders; and the number 
 of them was ten thousand times ten thousand and thou- 
 sands of thousands ; saying with a great voice, 'worthy is 
 the Lamb that was slain, to receive the power and riches 
 and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing/ 
 And every created thing which is the heaven, and on the 
 earth, and under the earth and on the sea, and all things 
 that are in them heard I saying, 'Unto Him that sitteth 
 in the throne, and unto the Lamb, be the blessing, and 
 the honor, and the glory and the dominion, forever and 
 ever/ " 
 
 Our moving out of the old chapel should furnish us a 
 useful lesson. All true life and all true progress is con- 
 stantly moving out, is occupying a more extended terri- 
 tory and coming under an ampler heaven. It is worship 
 which thus enlarges mens' hearts and mens' horizons. 
 
 The gift of Mr. Schwab is worth more to the college 
 than ten fold the real value of the money involved, be- 
 cause it enlarges the college's capacity, it enlarges its 
 property, it enhances its outward appearance, it gives it 
 already greater essential dignity. And do you not sup- 
 pose that the gifts of God to us enrich us a thousand fold 
 more? What a rich creation to an unfathomable depth 
 lies all around us ! What visible beauties, what invisi- 
 ble wealth! What a nature within us to correspond; 
 What challenges every day and on every hand to ob- 
 servation, to inspiration, to duty, and to truth! Under 
 these conditions it will not do for us to be satisfied with 
 present things nor with small things. 
 
 131 
 
May God awaken in us all holy desires after Him. 
 May we find our daily work and do it in His fear. Thus 
 and thus only shall we come to the transformations which 
 seem best typified by some winged things. We, like 
 them, do but crawl at first, then by and by, like them we 
 are wrapped in our cocoon or sleep of death, that most 
 unpierced of all the mysteries, and who knows but, at 
 the last, like them we shall be lifted up above the earth, 
 our faith and purity having lent us wings, having trans- 
 ferred us into spiritual being and angelic surroundings? 
 God grant no secret thing may eat into our first estate and 
 so render our last estate impossible. 
 
 "Build thee more stately mansions, O, my soul, 
 
 As the swift seasons roll! 
 
 Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
 Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
 Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 
 
 Till thou at length are free, 
 Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea." 
 
 Delivered in the Old Chapel, June 7, 1913. 
 
 X. PRAYERS 
 
 Almighty God, in whom we live and move, we turn 
 our thoughts and hearts to Thee, and pray for thy pres- 
 ence at this hour. 
 
 Heaven is thy throne and earth is thy footstool. The 
 heaven of heavens cannot contain Thee. The nations of 
 men are as nothing before Thee. Thou lookest upon the 
 isles as a very little thing. Thou bringest princes to noth- 
 ing and makest the judges of the earth as vanity. 
 
And yet Thou also visitest the earth and waterest it. 
 Thine eye seeth every precious thing. Thou openest thy 
 hand and satisfiest the desire of every living thing. Thou 
 visitest the temples reared to thy praise and even condes- 
 cendest to make the hearts of men thy dwelling-place. 
 
 We thank Thee that Thou givest life, and that to 
 Thy highest creatures, Thou givest inspiration to the 
 noblest life. Thou not only sustainest us, but arousest 
 what is best in us of activity and excellence. We thank 
 Thee that Thou hast so made the world that we, created 
 in thy image, may find out its secrets, by patient thought 
 and faithful effort ; may find inspiration and helpfulness 
 on every hand, in every object and in every event. 
 
 We thank Thee for the circumstances under which 
 we gather today; that we are here to dedicate unto God 
 and to the service of education this beautiful building, so 
 generously given, so nobly planned, so faithfully con- 
 structed. Bless us, Almighty God, as we thus come to 
 take possession for Thee and for ourselves and for those 
 who shall come after us. Yea, Lord ! and for those who 
 have gone before us, also a part of that brotherhood which 
 constitutes the College. We entreat thy blessing and thy 
 presence, on this day and on all days to come, upon the 
 life that shall centre here. May these beautiful and ample 
 spaces be the scene of daily inspiration to all those who 
 shall for years' pour in and out at these doors. May Thy 
 presence be here on all the occasions of the future to hal- 
 low and restrain as well as to inspire. May no unhal- 
 lowed words be heard here. May noblest, most uplifting, 
 truths be taught here. May those who are taught, may 
 those who teach, may those who carry the corporate bur- 
 den of furnishing and directing instruction, all, receive 
 Thy inspiration and Thy grace, as they shall meet to wor- 
 
 133 
 
ship, or to render any service of whatever sort, within 
 these walls. 
 
 We thank Thee for the earliest and the humblest at- 
 tempts to furnish education in this place. We thank Thee 
 for the location chosen ; for the lowly beginning ; for the 
 first gifts ; for the earliest sacrifices. We thank Thee for 
 the years of hard struggle and slow promise. We thank 
 Thee for enemies as well as for friends. We thank Thee 
 for the burdens borne all these years by faithful trustees 
 and teachers, and for the loyalty and effective manhood of 
 those who have been born of us and are gone from us. 
 We thank Thee that some of those who have struggled 
 the hardest and the longest are here today to reap a por- 
 tion of the reward. 
 
 We pray Thee, bless thy servant, the President of the 
 Trustees, and all other members of the Board. Impart 
 to them, we beseech Thee, with this large increase of prop- 
 erty and of numbers, a larger increase of wisdom and dis- 
 cretion, to guide the affairs of this College for the highest 
 good of the students, for the best welfare of the State of 
 Pennsylvania, and for the glory of God. 
 
 Bless Thy servant, the President of the College. We 
 thank Thee for the years of service he has rendered here ; 
 for his continued health and strength ; for the strength of 
 his purpose, the unity of his aims, the untiringness of his 
 devotion. May he, in these later years, live greatly to 
 enjoy some at least of the fruits he has struggled for ; and 
 grant that he may experience no decrease of strength in 
 these days when his burdens are so much increased. 
 
 Do Thou bless, oh Lord, the heads of departments 
 and the instructors. May they be learners as well as 
 teachers, skillful to understand and patient to bestow the 
 true wisdom. 
 
 134 
 
Bless the students of the College, the graduates, the 
 undergraduates and those who shall follow them. May 
 they build for each other, and with each other, and with 
 the truth into high living and noble purpose. 
 
 And now, we beseech Thee, bless thy servants whom 
 Thou hast made thy agents in this noble gift. May they, 
 in imagination, look forward today, so far as weak human 
 thought can, and forecast the wonderful results for 
 many years to come upon thousands of young people, of 
 the work which they are here doing for Thee today. 
 Give them health and strength in their unusual position 
 of responsibility and teach them that most steadying and 
 helpful of all lessons, that they are Thy stewards, the al- 
 moners of Thy bounty, channels for the transmission of 
 the blessing of education and of the manifold grace of 
 God. 
 
 And bless, we pray Thee, all those public men who, 
 in these later days, have, in the same manner, been made 
 Thy agents in bringing good to their fellowmen, by dis- 
 tributing their scores of millions to further the progress 
 of education, philanthropy, and religion. God grant that 
 they and we may not, in the splendor of the gifts, be 
 blinded to the spiritual uses for which they are designed 
 of Thee and to which they should be devoted. 
 
 And now we would pray Thee to bless those who 
 have toiled in dark mines, those who have sweat before the 
 blazing furnaces, those who have sweltered in the fields 
 under the burning sun, those who have fired the swift 
 engine, those who have beaten against storms at sea, those 
 who have labored in whatever sort to produce those re- 
 sults of brain and hand which are the only true wealth. 
 Let us not forget, wealthy though we are, wise though we 
 are, powerful though we are, that without even the hum- 
 
 185 
 
blest we are nothing ; for Thou hast made us all laborers 
 dependent upon each other and honored to be colaborers 
 with Thee. 
 
 Nor would we forget to thank Thee today for the 
 toiling, earnest age in which we live; for the purposes 
 that are at work, however much they may seem sometimes 
 to be "at cross purposes." We thank Thee that they are 
 the development of the spirit of Jesus Christ, the Son of 
 God. They are men's birth-throes, the signs and tokens 
 of the federation of the world. 
 
 Cause us, therefore, Almighty God, to humble our- 
 selves before Thee today in this beautiful hall; to bow 
 down ourselves before the Majesty of the Son of God, the 
 Son of Man, who gave Himself for us. Let us confess 
 our sins. Let us haste to forsake them. Let us seek 
 pardon and peace and perfection in his name; to whom, 
 with the Father and with the Holy Spirit, be ascribed, as 
 is most due, all praise, might, majesty, and dominion, 
 both now and forevermore, Amen. 
 
 At the Dedication of the Schwab Auditorium, 
 
 June 1 6, 1903. 
 
 O God, the only source of light and blessing, we 
 thank Thee for the material of knowledge which Thou 
 hast scattered abroad, and for the law of Wisdom Thou 
 hast engraved within our hearts. 
 
 Teach us the Master's principle of being willing to 
 do God's will that we may know the nature of God's teach- 
 ing. 
 
 Bless all those who are in authority over us. 
 
 Still cause Thy holy Church to protect and cherish 
 the faith once delivered to the saints. 
 
 136 
 
Illuminate the Schools and Colleges and Universities 
 with Thine inward light, that those who teach may be 
 taught of Thee, and those who learn may be led by the 
 Spirit. 
 
 Bless this College. 
 
 Counsel its Trustees in their important trust. 
 
 Bless the President who has given to it so many years 
 of untiring devotion and who, through severe stress, has 
 erected here a monument of which the State is forced to 
 be proud. Restore him to such degree of health as may 
 be Thy will for him, and in the hour of sickness or trial 
 may Thy faith not fail him. 
 
 Instruct by Thine own Spirit those who give instruc- 
 tion. 
 
 Help all the undergraduates to maintain the tone of 
 the College by the purity of their own individual lives ! 
 
 Prosper the Alumni and give them loyalty to their 
 Alma Mater. 
 
 With each new class may the College take on new life 
 and, through new eyes, look yearly to larger ideals. 
 
 Bless all friends and patrons of the College and all 
 our visitors who are enjoying with us these June days. 
 
 May the words of the Speaker on this occasion prove 
 a persuasive message to higher living. 
 
 Bless, we pray Thee, the graduating class. This is 
 their day. Today they receive the diplomas, the outward 
 signs, of faithful work. May they, from this day, enter 
 into life so faithfully and continue in all good so persev- 
 eringly, that, when God's day shall come, the day that 
 commences our larger, immortal life, they may hear Thee 
 say : "Well done." And to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost 
 
 1ST 
 
will we ascribe all praise and honor and dominion for- 
 ever and ever. Amen. 
 
 At Commencement on June 13, 1906. 
 
 Eternal and ever blessed God, we adore Thee, the 
 Lord of heaven and earth, of whom and through whom 
 are all things. We thank Thee for truths that confront 
 the sense and convince the heart, for Thy glory which 
 flames from sun and star and which is revealed in the 
 face of Jesus Christ, and made efficient by the Holy 
 Spirit. 
 
 Hear us, on this anniversary, Oh Lord, and bless us. 
 
 Bless the friends and patrons and almuni gathered 
 here in reunion, breathing this clear air and delighting 
 in all this outward loveliness. Bless 'the honored mem- 
 bers of other colleges who share with us in the enjoyment 
 of this occasion. 
 
 Bless especially this crowning work of the year, these 
 rewards of labor, these duties ended, or to be assumed. 
 
 Bless the undergraduates of this College and fill them 
 with high purpose and firm endeavor. Give to the Fac- 
 ulty true understanding which is the fear of God, that 
 they may rightly teach others also. 
 
 Bless the Trustees and the Executive Committee up- 
 on whom such heavy responsibilities rest and have rested. 
 God reward them for their fidelity and give them increase 
 of wisdom rightly to administer the trust put upon them 
 by the State and the National Government. 
 
 And now bless especially Thy servant, the incoming 
 President, this day to be inaugurated. Give him the loyal 
 
 188 
 
hearts of the students. Give him the fidelity of his coad- 
 jutors. Give him the hearty cooperation of the Board of 
 Trustees. Give him the support of this noble Common- 
 wealth. Give him to seek of Thee that true understand- 
 ing which enlightens the mind and cheers the heart. Give 
 him health, strength, and courage that he may prove him- 
 self the very life of the institution over which he presides. 
 
 Bless the class of 1908, who are to receive today their 
 diplomas and to become alumni. God give them strength, 
 each day in the future, to write better records and earn 
 new diplomas from the esteem of their fellows and the 
 character of their work. Be with them, we pray Thee. 
 Hear us, Oh Lord, for those who are entering our Col- 
 lege, the army of our supporters who are coming on. 
 Make them yearly a better as well as a larger army. 
 
 Bless all the institutions of learning and sources of 
 education throughout our land. Bless our State and its 
 Governor, our Nation and its Chief Executive, and hasten 
 we beseech the coming of Him who by his spirit shall 
 lead men unto all truth our Lord, Jesus Christ, to whom 
 be all praise and honor and dominion forever and ever, 
 Amen. 
 
 At the Inauguration of President Sparks, June, 1908. 
 
X. OF WHAT USE IS AN OLD MAN 
 ANYHOW? 
 
 Genesis 47: 8 and 9, and II Timothy 4: 7 and 8. 
 
 Of what use is an old man anyhow? "A rather 
 strange question," you will say, "to ask a large body of 
 young men." But I would not ask it if there were not 
 something in it. It has been in the air since the early 
 part of the winter. 
 
 I have selected, for form's sake, two groups of words, 
 one from the Old, and another from the New Testament. 
 The one was spoken by a man who was one hundred and 
 thirty years old, the other was written by a man of sixty- 
 five. The one was spoken in a palace, in the presence of 
 a king, the other was written in a dungeon by a prisoner 
 in irons, in the presence of his keepers. Both are the 
 words of men who had lived with all their might ; the one, 
 a shepherd prince, had lived wholly for himself ; the other, 
 a tent-maker, living from hand to mouth, had lived for 
 others, had labored painfully hard, had suffered much, had 
 travelled far. 
 
 In the 47th of Genesis are these words : "Pharaoh 
 said unto Jacob how old art thou ? And Jacob said unto 
 Pharaoh, the days of the years of my pilgrimage are 
 one hundred and thirty years. Few and evil have been 
 the days of the years of my life and they have not attained 
 unto the days of the years of the life of my fathers in 
 their pilgrimage." 
 
 Then in the later part of Paul's Second Epistle to 
 Timothy are these words: "I have finished the course. 
 I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me 
 
 140 
 
a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous 
 Judge, shall give me at that day." 
 
 These words, so dissimilar in their spirit, are, in their 
 moral attitude, exactly alike. Both men are reflecting on 
 life. Life seems short to both. To both, life is a place 
 of moral issues, where men do their duty or fail of doing 
 it. 
 
 That old lives have a supreme value in determining 
 all living needs no arguing. Why does a man set out an 
 orchard of varied fruit trees ? Is it because they will 
 gladden the spring with the beauty and fragrance of their 
 blossoms? Yes, that in part. Is it for their developing 
 branches, their leafy garlands, their symmetry, size, 
 shade? Yes, that also in part. But the main reason is 
 the fruit they are to bear. He looks years ahead when 
 he will have a large orchard or vineyard and a wealth of 
 fruit. And every season he is careful for what the end 
 of the season is to bring. 
 
 One valuable fruit of an old man's life is, that he is 
 reflective. He is obliged to look back upon the past and 
 draw lessons from it, lessons which are bound to be 
 turned to the instruction of younger life. 
 
 It is different with the young man, the man under 
 twenty-five. He cannot reflect much, because he has had 
 but few changes and only a limited experience. He has 
 not had much to think about. He has not travelled much, 
 nor read much. He has lived, very likely, in the same 
 place and been subject to much the same conditions. 
 Death, he does not know much about, and to life he has 
 been obliged to give but little serious thought. 
 
 We do try to instill into the minds of young people 
 many subjects that shall make them thoughtful. But, 
 when all is done, they are not, and cannot be, reflective as 
 
 141 
 
old men are. Life has to be lived before it can be medi- 
 tated on or fully appreciated. Home duties get tiresome. 
 School life is a bore. Sunday school and church going 
 are insipid. It is because the youth has not reflected on 
 what these things mean. Even in cases where young 
 people seek a higher education they have not given such 
 thought to it as their more mature instructors have, and 
 those very disciplines which are intended especially to 
 train them in good habit and religious living, those they 
 often resent most of all. (A discipline like this, say, of 
 Sunday worship.) If they were allowed to grow up as 
 they would like, unadvised, untutored, unsteadied, by the 
 recorded experience of older men, society would collapse 
 by the third generation and anarchy would prevail. 
 
 But again, men between twenty-five and fifty do not 
 get much chance to reflect. To most young persons 
 life is a subject neither of responsibility nor of reflection. 
 To men in middle life, there are responsibilities, so many 
 as to shut out almost entirely such reflections as are possi- 
 ble to older men. They do not get time to read the larger 
 and richer values out of life. The man of middle age 
 must hustle. His strength is perfect. Blood is at full 
 tide. Duties crowd thick and fast. Money is to be 
 made ; studies pursued ; inventions perfected ; business en- 
 larged; reputation and standing gained. The man in 
 middle life is rubbing against other men. He is in the 
 whirlpool of the world's work. Responsibilities in home, 
 church, borough, state, crowd upon him. Talk to such a 
 man about time for quiet reflection! How can he have 
 much time for it ? Indeed why should the man in middle 
 life look forward or backward ? He must do so to a de- 
 gree in order to be safe and progressive. But to do so as 
 an old man can, in the quiet of less pressing occupation, 
 
 149 
 
with several hours at his command, these things are not 
 for him. Perhaps we may say, they ought not to be for 
 him. 
 
 It is the active side which he must see, not as yet the 
 moral bearings of things. Immediate questions of right 
 and wrong, as of profit and loss, he must reflect upon daily. 
 But daily they must have a swift decision. He must catch 
 some precept from his boyhood, some warning that fell 
 years ago from a mother's or a father's lips, a scrap from 
 Bible, reader, or spelling book and he must put such senti- 
 ment hurriedly into practice. He is not in a monk's cell. 
 He has not time to be down on his knees with his Bible 
 before him probing his own heart, leisurely and undis- 
 turbed, until he has found and corrected the motive of his 
 life. No. With a man of twenty-five to fifty, it is live 
 now. Select your good quickly. Live with all that is in 
 you. 
 
 But now look for a moment at the old man, the man 
 beyond fifty, how is it with him? The changes of life 
 have gradually heaped up subjects for reflection. How 
 many times has the scene of his life changed since he was 
 a boy? How many times has he dropped one circle of 
 friends and taken up another? How many times has he 
 been lonely with the heartache under new conditions? 
 Many of his friends of long ago have gone into the un- 
 known, and with their going questions have arisen, pain- 
 ful, persistent, and hard to solve. The life he has lived 
 is constantly going through the mill of his mind. 
 
 I wish I dared to sketch to an audience like this the 
 reflections of the patriarch, Jacob. They are, in part, of 
 too sacred a character. 
 
 But look at this other man, a prisoner in the Mamer- 
 tine, and only a few days from a felon's end. How preci- 
 
 143 
 
ous Paul's reflections must have been. That day Christ 
 met him in glory on the Damascus road. Ananias coming 
 in to comfort him and the scales falling from his eyes. 
 His summons to Antioch, and work in the first great re- 
 vival there. The first missionary journey with Barnabas. 
 Scores of towns in Asia and Europe where there were 
 brethren loving him and praying for him and blessing 
 him. Jerusalem, Antioch, and Philippi, Thessalonica, 
 Beroea and Athens, Corinth, Ephesus, and Rome, these 
 are but a few of the many towns where he has seen men 
 leaving heathenism and coming to Christ. He and Silas 
 are singing hymns at midnight in the jail at Philippi, 
 when suddenly the doors are opened and every man's 
 bonds are loosed. The prolonged shouting for two hours 
 in the theatre at Ephesus : " Great is Diana of the Ephe- 
 sians." The more maddened cry at the castle of Jerusa- 
 lem : "Away with such a fellow from the earth." 
 
 But his own pen pictures are more vivid than any one 
 else will ever draw : "Of the Jews five times received 
 I forty stripes save one. Thrice was I beaten with rods, 
 once was I stoned, thrice I suffered shipwreck, a day and 
 a night I have been in the deep; in journeyings often, in 
 perils of rivers, of robbers, and of my own country men ; 
 in perils of the city and the wilderness and the sea; in 
 hunger and thirst and fasting and cold and nakedness." 
 
 I appeal to you, is it not by such records, such mem- 
 ories, such reflections, that younger men are educated and 
 inspired to make a like noble record ? And does not an 
 old man, in such reflections, live his life over again and 
 live it better? Does he not forget the faults of the dead 
 and treat the living with a larger charity? And are not 
 such reflections on life applied, among all civilized peoples, 
 with untold profit to the better education of the young? 
 
 144 
 
And would not civilization wither from our earth were it 
 not for the constant legacies of older men's experience ? 
 
 Now the reflections of these two old men bring to our 
 notice two things for which the soul is intensely eager, 
 eager as for nothing else. One is that the soul loves to 
 live. What does Jacob say : "Few have the days of the 
 years of my life been." And what does Paul say: "I 
 have finished the course." Both these men are looking at 
 the same thought life and its brevity. Jacob of course 
 looks wholly backward. His tone is despondent. He is 
 doleful about the life he must leave. But Paul is joyful 
 about the life he is to enter. His belief has taught him 
 to look ahead and has left him hopeful. To Jacob the 
 hundred and thirty years are only a few evil days. To 
 Paul life is only a Greek race, four, six, eight laps 
 nearly over and already the goal, the shouting, the laurels 
 endless life. 
 
 I say again: How eager the soul is to live! You 
 may meet a man, so old, so disheartened that he declares 
 he would rather die than live. Say to him : "We will 
 fix your death then for tomorrow morning at nine 
 o'clock." Would he be there? No! Not if he were a 
 century old, not if he had lost sight and hearing and was 
 without a friend in the world. No ! Not if he had seen 
 only trouble and was now the victim of some dreadful dis- 
 ease would he prefer death to life. If you think so you 
 do not know how eagerly men hold on to life. 
 
 And yet how shabbily men treat this thing they call 
 life. Why do we not ask earlier and more constantly what 
 living is, its nature, its top value? We are all the time 
 facing "the skull and cross-bones." We must die, and 
 all the points in which men differ : health and weakness, 
 riches and poverty, high and low estate, all vanish in the 
 
 145 
 
presence of the grim spectre, death. Pass a few years, 
 and the longest life is gone. You look at these grey hairs 
 and you say, "his career will soon be ended." I look at 
 you, in turn, and with no humor, no sarcasm, I say: 
 "Day after tomorrow, you too will be grey-headed." Just 
 a few days it will surprise you how few and then, as 
 we say, the laugh will be on you. 
 
 You, in your youth, are like the man, who, for the 
 first time, has a good square bank account and a cheque 
 book. How comfortable it is to keep drawing out ! How 
 important a man feels ! "Five thousand dollars !" Why 
 should he stop to find the remainder after writing every 
 check? But, ah, there comes a day when he thinks he 
 will add them and strike the balance. He has left a bare 
 hundred dollars. The sweat stands in beads on his brow. 
 Where has all that money gone ? Every cent of that hun- 
 dred dollars is more valuable in his sight now than every 
 dollar of the five thousand was. 
 
 Many men treat life in just that way until a bare 
 fragment of it is left, and in that fragment they must 
 learn, if ever they are to learn, what life means, and 
 whether it has relations to other life in other worlds. And 
 is it not sensible for a man to face early the question, 
 "how shall I live?" rather than be confronted with the 
 question, "why must I die ?" Jacob set the question aside. 
 He had never deeply pondered it. Twenty, forty, eighty, 
 one hundred and thirty, years he had lived. He had 
 nearly exhausted his bank account. And now he thinks 
 it has been short. He calls it a few days, and evil days 
 at that, and yet it was nearly fifty thousand days. 
 
 But do not be surprised that he calls them few and 
 evil. Live fifty, a hundred years, more; and unless you 
 have learned how to live, life will seem brief. Jacob 
 
 146 
 
might have learned some of the same lessons Paul had 
 learned. There was the same God in heaven. There 
 were the same possibilities to faith. There was the same 
 opportunity and need for prayer. There was the same 
 opening of work and thought for others that door which 
 opens to nobler graces, none of which he possessed. Why 
 did not Jacob contribute something to the solving of this 
 problem of life here and, possibly, hereafter? Certainly 
 Paul was not more eager for life than Jacob. The patri- 
 arch is as tenacious of it as the apostle. 
 
 I come now to the other thing I had to say of the 
 soul. It is eager for good. It loves to be good. Ob- 
 serve yourself closely and you will find that the word 
 "good" is on your lips perhaps as much as any other 
 word. Every reasonable man knows that if you can be 
 really good you will be truly happy. Just as food, air, 
 water keep the body toned in life and purity, so precisely 
 is goodness the tone, the life, of the soul. 
 
 And yet it is a strange thing most men fail of be- 
 ing good. There is only now and then a man who comes 
 to the close of life whose regrets are not exactly like 
 Jacob's. "EVll have been the days of the years of my 
 pilgrimage" I am sure I say that. I feel that. It is 
 what most men feel. 
 
 A man's eagerness for life grows in proportion to his 
 eagerness for goodness. Only as he is good, does he 
 really live. Goodness is the most pure, the most gener- 
 ous, the most comprehensive of all moral qualities. They 
 are all embraced under it. It includes the thought of 
 God ; obedience to the calls of conscience ; thoughtf ulness 
 and charity towards my neighbor ; the rational use of my 
 time and all my powers and privileges. 
 
 H7 
 
But look with me for a moment at Jacob. There is 
 no life pictured in the Holy Book that is more selfish. I 
 am not denying to Jacob strong, commanding qualities. 
 It is not out of place to speak of God as the God of Abra- 
 ham, Isaac, and Jacob. But look at Jacob. He cheats 
 his own brother of his birthright. He lies to his aged 
 father in order to rob the same brother of his blessing. 
 He flees from home under a lying pretext. Some people 
 incline to think that Jacob was converted when he saw 
 the vision at Bethel, but his prayer at Bethel is a selfish 
 man's prayer. And long after Bethel he cheats his 
 father-in-law of the best of his cattle. 
 
 This man is always thinking how Jacob's flocks shall 
 prosper. During all his prime he sows the seeds of sel- 
 fishness, and the reflections of his later days are melan- 
 choly and regret. His thoughts look only backward and 
 upon what seems a troubled dream. 
 
 What a swift retribution had come to him when 
 Joseph was reported missing. How that loss burned 
 deeper and deeper into his soul for years. Jacob had put 
 the finishing touches on Joseph. He had given special 
 attention to the child of his darling Rachel. He had 
 brought the boy up to love God without doubt or ques- 
 tioning. Joseph's life is the most beautiful thing in old 
 Testament literature. A business man would say that 
 Joseph's life was Jacob's largest, perhaps his only, asset. 
 But when the tragedy of Joseph's loss fell upon him, 
 never afterwards did hope send a ray of sunshine across 
 his face. These words here are spoken as he stands in 
 the presence of the king, and in the presence of his son 
 second only to the king. But he has brooded so long on 
 the loss of Joseph that no power can raise him out of his 
 settled melancholy, "Few and evil have been my days," 
 
 148 
 
were the words of his lament. Why, the smile of God, 
 like sunshine after showers, ought to have thrown sheen, 
 and color and rainbows over his closing life. He ought 
 to have looked up and exclaimed : " Goodness and mercy 
 have followed me, all the days of my life." But selfish- 
 ness had stabbed his optimism. He had taught his boy 
 the comforts of Providence which he himself had failed 
 to learn. 
 
 And why should an older man expect the fruits of 
 goodness and life, if his younger and his stronger days 
 have failed to foster them? If we attach our hearts' 
 affection solely to the things of this life and never look at 
 their bearing to the things that may be beyond, why 
 should not our hearts be torn when they are taken from 
 us ? The man who all the time thinks of himself and his 
 only; the man whose time is spent in building a fortune 
 and a future for himself and possibly taking plenty of 
 advantage of others in order to do it ; who is not scrupu- 
 lous to do a sharp thing if it will add to his stock 
 of money or influence, if this world is all to him, why 
 should he not be dazed as it recedes from his view ? Such 
 a man has never sought after the springs of immortal 
 life goodness and the rich spiritual harvests that come 
 of it. He has never fostered the love of God. He has 
 never dealt tenderly with his fellows as Sons of God. 
 
 Jacob's nature loved "goods," Paul's loved "good." 
 There is the difference. One followed the naturally sel- 
 fish nature. The other patterned after the nature of 
 Christ. The one accumulated everything and in the end 
 had nothing. The one surrendered everything and found 
 all. 
 
 Both men embody one and the same principle, one 
 stated by our Saviour and embodied in every act and word 
 
 149 
 
of his life: "Whosoever saveth his life shall lose it, and 
 whosoever loseth his life shall keep it unto life eternal." 
 
 Delivered in the Auditorium, May 21, 1905. 
 
 XI. ACADEMIC FOUNDATIONS 
 
 "Laying up in store for themselves a good foundation against 
 the time to come, that they may lay hold on the life which is life 
 indeed." I Timothy 6: 19. American Revised Version. 
 
 If a person were brought blindfolded into our daily 
 chapel and Sunday services here, he would, commonly, 
 be unable to distinguish that the gathering was a college 
 gathering or even a gathering of young men so seldom is 
 the address made to you as men who are young, who are 
 in a sense separate from life of the world, and in a state 
 of preparation for that life; so constantly are you ad- 
 dressed as men, men on whom rest now the responsibili- 
 ties of life. 
 
 On this first occasion of our college year, I shall de- 
 part from our general custom in this respect and shall 
 address you as college men, and in doing so I shall ask 
 you to consider with me this question: "What is the 
 nature of those academic opportunities which are pre- 
 sented to men of your years, to men who, like you, come 
 here or elsewhere for a something which seems of special 
 value?" 
 
 There are in Pennsylvania nearly seven millions of 
 people. There are in the state forty higher institutions 
 of learning, colleges or universities for men or women. 
 These have on their lists something less than twenty thou- 
 sand names. We shall speak not far from the facts if 
 
 150 
 
we say that one person in three hundred and fifty of our 
 state is enrolled in some college either in the state or out 
 of it. The college students, as you will see, are a small 
 proportion. 
 
 What are the incitements, the advantages, which lead 
 these few to go to college, to spend their four years of 
 high school preparation, and their four years in college, 
 to say nothing of a more extended education in profes- 
 sional schools ? There surely ought to be some very sub- 
 stantial reasons why one man in every three hundred 
 foregoes for several years his opportunities of learning a 
 trade, of getting practically established in some profes- 
 sion or business. There ought to be some very convinc- 
 ing arguments indeed to turn him from the paths of en- 
 terprise now open to the multitudes of Americans, to 
 cause him to tread the quiet paths of the recluse, to cause 
 him to wait for years, to cause him to put out money 
 without any immediate return, or hope of return. So 
 that we are justified in asking: "What opportunities are 
 offered him to warrant such expense and delay?" 
 
 Look this fact also in the face. For every man who 
 succeeds because he has been to college, there are not less 
 than fifty men who succeed equally well, to all appear- 
 ance, without the college. With a little pains you can 
 make out a long list of names of college men who have 
 made a brilliant success in all the callings and professions 
 of life, but with no more trouble you can make a list 
 equally long of non-college men whose success has been 
 as great. A comparison of the two lists might almost 
 lead you to say, "Where is the advantage in a so-called 
 college course?" 
 
 One incident might be recited which is really start- 
 ling. Four men have, within a few years, set in motion 
 
 151 
 
or given the impetus to the production of steel, and this 
 on so vast a scale as to affect all the other industries of 
 the world. None of those four men Frederick Krupp, 
 Henry Bessemer, Andrew Carnegie, Charles M. Schwab 
 has been a college educated man. Startling attention 
 was called to these four men and to the influences, good 
 or bad, set in motion by them in a recent number of the 
 Philadelphia Evening Bulletin. It is an account that 
 should set any college man to thinking. Any man who 
 is so foolish as to consider a college education indispensa- 
 ble, or to coddle himself because he is a college man, 
 ought to read that account and feel humbled. 
 
 . But the success of men who have been successful 
 without the college, men who because of their success 
 sometimes speak slightingly of the college, the succcess of 
 such self-educated men has not diminished in the least 
 the numbers of those who are attending college or who 
 will attend in the future. So that still there is forced on 
 us the question : What is the nature of those opportuni- 
 ties which are given to a man at college, such apparently 
 that they are appraised at an almost inestimable value, 
 such furthermore that any self-made man, if it were possi- 
 ble to retrace his steps, would freely embrace? 
 
 As preliminary to two or three things which I shall 
 say later let me now say this : That young men do rrot 
 go to college to complete their education. They go there 
 to lay the ground plan of it. They go there not to build 
 up a structure of more or less varied knowledge ; they go 
 there to find out or to lay out the foundation lines on 
 which all later knowledge and conduct may be laid, and 
 laid properly and consistently. 
 
 I see before me here this morning one or two men 
 who were present when Mr. Alexander fixed the ground- 
 
 152 
 
plan of this building in which we are now gathered. It 
 was done with a carpenter's measuring line. It was done 
 with the utmost care. Every line was exactly the length 
 called for in the architect's drawing. Every line crossed 
 every other line exactly at the angle called for in the blue- 
 prints. The whole ground plan was fixed exactly as the 
 architect had arranged for with relation to the other 
 buildings and walks in the immediate vicinity. All these 
 lines and all their relations to each other and to other 
 lines already fixed, did not vary a hair's-breadth from 
 what the specifications called for. And can you not see 
 what a difference it would have made if they had ? 
 
 Any imperfection in the laying of the ground plan 
 of this noble building would have meant lack of symmetry 
 somewhere before the building was completed. But as it 
 is, part answers absolutely to its opposite part. Line is 
 perpendicular or horizontal to its neighbor line. You 
 cannot put your eye anywhere and find a defect. And all 
 that because of the exactness with which the original 
 ground lines were laid. "O any fool could do that," you 
 might have said, if you had seen it done. Any fool could 
 more easily rear this superstructure, any or all of it, than 
 he could do so apparently simple a thing as to lay the 
 ground plan, so important a thing was that ! 
 
 You are here to lay a ground plan somewhat similar. 
 You have come here to learn to lay emphasis on a few 
 great leading principles which are intended to dominate 
 and which should control your after life. The things 
 you are to learn, the subjects or matters which you are to 
 store away in your memory, are as the small dust of the 
 balance when compared to the cultivation of those lead- 
 ing principles which underlie all true living. I will state 
 
 153 
 
what seems to me those ground lines and state them in 
 the order of their importance. 
 
 First, you are here to form habits of mental indus- 
 try. Second, you are here to confirm you loyalty to 
 truth. Third, you are here that you may learn to put 
 noble principles into practical applications. 
 
 Lay this principle down first then, that you must 
 learn to be mentally industrious. All of us are gifted 
 with minds, but the feeble use that the great majority of 
 us make of them is quite deplorable. Nine men in ten 
 are not mentally industrious in any such sense as it is 
 their privilege to be. A college education, if it does any- 
 thing for a man, does this : It wakes him up to the fact 
 that he has a mind. It arouses him to see the inner 
 workings of his own mind. When his better tastes begin 
 to be aroused, when his reasoning faculty displays itself 
 for the first time in the easy problems of algebra or 
 geometry, when poetry makes its peculiar appeal to him, 
 and oratory arouses him, and scientific or mechanical ob- 
 servations and laws thrill and inspire him, then it is that 
 he awakes to see the value of mental industry, the value 
 and necessity for mental alertness on his own part. If 
 he reads books he marvels at the direct products that have 
 fruited from the human mind. If he gives his attention 
 to the problems that daily affect our human life, he is 
 obliged to see that nothing has value except in so far as 
 the human mind, human thinking, brings value to it. In 
 proportion as the mind sees and foresees does it impart 
 value into things, things spiritual as well as things com- 
 mercial. 
 
 I saw a piece of land, the other day, situated by the 
 seashore, not more than four thousand square feet in 
 dimensions, pure sand all of it and nothing but sand, as 
 
 154 
 
far down as you had a mind to dig, and that piece had 
 just been sold for thirty thousand dollars. A year or 
 less ago there was no apparent value in it. But some 
 mentally industrious land speculators held a conference 
 with some other men, equally mentally industrious, who 
 ran a trolley line. Together they thought out a situation, 
 and together thought a value into these valueless things. 
 Take a sample of the results within five or six years of 
 such mental industry. Here is a town ; here already are 
 thousands of permanent population, fine streets, beautiful 
 homes, noble churches, school houses, banks and other 
 public buildings, all the result of that original mental in- 
 dustry on the part of the speculators and the trolley men. 
 It has infinite results if you cared to follow them out. 
 
 One man rides over the sage-bush region of Utah 
 and Idaho and comes to a quick conclusion as he looks 
 out of the car window. "This is hideous. This is the 
 real desert. Nothing will grow here." He draws the 
 conclusion, unlocks his grip and settles down to reading 
 the last cheap novel. That is your mentally lazy man. 
 But the mentally industrious man comes along. He finds 
 an ample river flowing through this country. He taps 
 the stream and in a box, or sluice, or trench he carries the 
 water by gradual grade along the hill slopes. He irri- 
 gates this alkali soil. Where there promised to be noth- 
 ing there are now interminable acres covered with or- 
 chards of peaches and apricots and prunes. There are 
 apples that will sell in the London markets for a shilling 
 apiece. Capital, always mentally industrious by the way, 
 learns of the possibilities of increase and rushes in to in- 
 vest, until in a few months flourishing times spring up 
 out of the desert and the good-for-nothing land is selling 
 by the acre at one thousand dollars and upwards. 
 
 155 
 
And in our country as in no other on the face of the 
 globe do there open up opportunities for mental industry. 
 Out of the soil and the climate spring problems for the 
 comfort and enrichment of every man who will think. 
 Are these opportunities confined to any one class of men ? 
 A brief moment of thought will tell you no. They con- 
 cern all classes and all callings and all professions : men- 
 tal industry on the part of the adventurer and pioneer; 
 mental industry on the part of the civil engineer and the 
 railroad man ; mental industry on the part of the carpen- 
 ter and builder, and farmer, and trader. But if on the 
 part of these, equal mental alertness on the part of the 
 statesman, the missionary, the preacher, the teacher, the 
 philanthropist, the literary man, the physician, the lawyer 
 and of the countless army of skilled and unskilled labor- 
 ers. "America is but another name for opportunity," 
 and the man whose mind is actively at work on the varied 
 problems that will naturally confront him will find ample 
 material for success close to his hand whatever calling he 
 may elect to follow. Depend upon it, you could not 
 choose wrongly today, whatever calling you chose, what- 
 ever humblest business you took up, provided you were 
 mentally industrious in it. 
 
 I said that you are here, in the second place, to con- 
 firm your loyalty to truth. "What is truth, said jesting 
 Pilate, and would not stay for an answer." If any teach- 
 er were confronted with the question, what is truth, he 
 would find it hard, even at this late date, to answer. But 
 are there not certain great general ideas which all the 
 world really believes and acts upon, even though their 
 beliefs may take varied form? Does not common sense 
 lay hold on certain principles as in constant operation, on 
 certain causes as being at the foundation of things? 
 
 156 
 
And are we not to believe those few great truths which 
 find a consensus, which are in real harmony, everywhere 
 among men ? To those who have been reared under our 
 civilization those truths are, in the main, the following: 
 that an eternal, invisible God made all things and is over 
 all; that Jesus Christ is the finest example in word or 
 deed of any life thus far lived on the earth ; that the Bible 
 is by all means the richest book now in existence on the 
 whole subject of what we call divine Providence, teaching 
 it by numerous examples as no other book does and incul- 
 cating it by precepts and incidents which are as interest- 
 ing as they are convincing; that according to that book 
 he who obeys the voice of conscience and the law of God 
 shall live; that he who follows the example of Jesus 
 Christ, and he alone, shall lay hold upon the life which 
 is the life indeed. 
 
 Now one of these essential lines that you are to lay 
 down in your college days, and that you have a golden op- 
 portunity of laying down properly and well, is this line of 
 reverence for these old and long established truths. Let 
 them become ingrained in your nature. That is the in- 
 tention of the daily morning readings of the Bible. That 
 is the intention of these services held here on the Lord's 
 day. They are to confirm and strengthen in you that 
 loyalty to truth which has been instilled into you at home 
 ever since you were born. 
 
 You noticed, on the opening of college the other day, 
 how our President, in a few words, laid emphasis on all 
 those fundamental truths to which I have referred and 
 which are contained in it. He did it, no doubt, that you 
 might understand that the Pennsylvania State College 
 stands on the side of and is in harmony with all the truths 
 herein contained. 
 
 157 
 
It is not uncommon for one to meet with cases of 
 flippancy and shallow irreverence. Two weeks ago to- 
 night I fell in with a person who said : "I don't believe 
 in God, or the Bible. I cannot accept the divinity of 
 Jesus Christ. There is no power or use in prayer." As 
 soon as I could, for the expressions came out with mark- 
 ed rapidity, I said : "Why you will be a faddist, if you 
 don't look out. You are getting into what men call a 
 cranky state. There surely is something," I said, "that 
 you do believe, why don't you start with that, settle 
 down on that? You are acquainted with the Lord's 
 prayer, aren't you?" "Yes." "Could you write a better 
 one?" "No." "You know that psalm which begins 
 "the Lord is my Shepherd?" "Yes, I am not unfamiliar 
 with it." "Have you any criticism to offer on it?" 
 "No." "Do you recall certain scraps of the sayings of 
 Jesus about 'laying up treasure in heaven' and about 
 'building the house on the rock and not on the sand ?' " 
 "Yes." "Are not those sensible utterances?" "Yes." 
 "You remember Paul's great classic on charity?" "I 
 ought to, for I have heard it read a great many times." 
 "Is there a flaw in it? Would the world be improved 
 any if men lived according to it?" "No doubt of it." 
 "Well now," I said, "there are some things that you do 
 believe, why under heaven don't you let go, for the pres- 
 ent, the things that puzzle you, the things that you can't 
 believe and wont believe?" But I found in my opponent 
 a perverseness of mind that was as stubborn and mulish 
 as it could be, and that had not yielded in the least to what 
 it had admitted was plain common sense. In a half hour 
 or so, as our chat continued, my opponent came out with 
 some very outspoken assertions in regard to Thackeray. 
 He declared that no writer has looked upon human life 
 
 158 
 
more sanely, or studied and understood its problems more 
 deeply, or could be followed more safely as a guide on all 
 great moral and religious questions. And then I said : 
 "But have you noticed how saturated Thackeray is, in 
 every volume he has written, with the Bible and with the 
 homely principles it lays down ?" "Yes, I have and it has 
 often puzzled me." And here ended a conversation 
 which revealed a mind that had lost or claimed to have 
 lost all its regard for the great fundamentals of truth, 
 just because of a few puzzling questions with which all 
 such truths must of necessity be surrounded because of 
 their very nature. 
 
 Let us, my friends, lay down the law and lay it down 
 constantly, that those great truths which have been men- 
 tioned are to be revered during our growing life, and that 
 as we revere them, we shall grow into the highest, noblest 
 manhood. 
 
 I have not left myself time to do much more than to 
 say, as a third point, that another of your precious aca- 
 demic opportunities is to learn to put noble principles into 
 practical application. To have noble principles in the 
 head and in the heart is one thing, to put them into prac- 
 tical application in daily life is quite another thing. In 
 matters that are not spiritual or moral, we are wise in this 
 regard and each of us is wise and shrewd to make use of 
 the very best of all the means at his command. But 
 how is it in moral matters, in spiritual matters? Men 
 slide into habits that ruin body and soul. They know a 
 thing is not good for them. They know it is ruinous to 
 body and soul, and yet they are as eager after it as the 
 moth for the flame. And if a fad of any sort will shield 
 and protect them in an evil or low practice, they will 
 adopt the fad and let the real sane sensible truth go to 
 the wind. 
 
 159 
 
What are these noble principles which we worship 
 so in theory? They are nothing but truths which men 
 have proven so in actual practice, and their golden value 
 can never be discovered until they are reduced to practice 
 again by us. The truth I preach or the principle I lay 
 down can have no value to you, if you see me violate it in 
 my own life. To win you to noble principle, I must my- 
 self be an embodiment of that principle. 
 
 But the limit of my time orders me to stop. 
 
 College opportunities are such as to awaken in all 
 true men their conscious manhood. College life gives 
 you privileges and throws you into personal associations 
 by which the life can be grandly enriched as in no other 
 way. But college life is not a time to lay up stores of 
 knowledge, as I have said. It is the time to lay strong 
 emphasis on the elements of all knowledge, and, as I have 
 said, it is the time to learn to work hard with our mind, 
 the time not to be flippant with truth 'but to revere it, the 
 time to act in our daily life and in the formation of daily 
 habits under the motive and inspiration of such principles 
 as the wisdom and experience of men have declared are 
 for our good as they are for the good of all men. By 
 doing these things you will be laying up in store for 
 yourselves a good foundation against the time to come. 
 Dr. Pritchett, of the School of Technology, in an address 
 delivered before the University of Michigan in the sum- 
 mer of 1905, said, among other things, this : "Today we 
 need, in my judgment, to concern ourselves in the uni- 
 versity with the spiritual side of administration. The 
 first purpose of the University is not to further industrial 
 development or to increase the wealth of a state, it is the 
 development of the intellectual and the spiritual life." 
 
 Delivered in the Auditorium, September 17, 1905. 
 
 160 
 
XII. A MAN IS WORTH WHAT HE CAN 
 THINK 
 
 "Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the 
 issues of life." Proverbs 4:23. 
 
 These words mean "look out for your emotional 
 nature and the words and acts that result from it, because 
 of the influence, for good or evil, upon those around you." 
 
 But it would not be altogether out of the way for 
 us to substitute here the word "mind" for the word 
 "heart." Then the words would read : "Above all else 
 that you guard, guard your mind, because all that results 
 in life results from that." "As a man thinketh so is he," 
 is often quoted as a text of scripture. There is no such 
 text. But if there were, it would be about the equivalent 
 of what I have just read and it would mean that a man 
 is worth what he can think. A man is not of value be- 
 cause of his wealth or his apparent influence. He is of 
 value in proportion as he can think with profit and safety 
 to his fellows. It is this alone which gives character or 
 determines fortune. 
 
 It is not by good luck that a man gets as rich as the 
 elder Vanderbilt, or leads the merchant princes of the 
 world as did the late Marshall Field. Isaac Rich used to 
 peddle fish in a wheelbarrow through the streets of Bos- 
 ton. It was not luck that enabled him later to buy up all 
 the fish caught from Eastport, Maine, to Point Judith, 
 Rhode Island, to control the fish-market, and later to 
 found what has become a great university in the city of 
 Boston and to die a millionaire. Mr. Carnegie's wealth 
 is not a windfall. A property he purchased not many 
 miles from here rose in value ten fold. Why? Because 
 he put thought into it. 
 
 161 
 
Every man is a centre of thinking. He is always 
 thinking, asleep or awake, from the cradle to the grave. 
 And education, with the inspiration and help of religion, 
 is engaged in making men thoughtful, so that they will 
 gradually think accurately and with rapidity, with purity 
 and originality. If you are properly educated, these are 
 your stock in trade, your friends, your wealth, your pres- 
 tige. 
 
 The thoughtful man does not wait to find employ- 
 ment. He makes it. Did you ever read of any one in a 
 harder fix than Robinson Crusoe? He set his brain to 
 work to find rescue, and he found comfort and happiness. 
 He did some bungling thinking, but he got himself out of 
 a hole. He shows us that a man can think himself into 
 all the necessaries of life, all the comforts of home, all 
 the consolations of religion, although he is alone with no 
 man to advise him. 
 
 I need not call your attention to the fact that the 
 human mind is here and there and everywhere at the 
 same moment : among the stars, under the sea, across the 
 ocean, back in distant antiquity, or far off into the future. 
 It is this horse broke loose that is to be controlled. 
 
 The Spartan hero, Menelaus, was told that if he 
 caught the sea-monster, Proteus, he could learn his way 
 back from Troy. He went to the cave of the monster. 
 The struggle began. It was a lion, but suddenly it be- 
 came a leopard, then a wild boar, then a dragon, no, a 
 stream of water, no, a tree. But he held to it and com- 
 pelled its secret. Untrained thought is just like this. 
 And we have first to check and hold it. This unbridled 
 thought carries with it our secret and we are to compel 
 that secret from it. We catch the untutored mind. We 
 compel processes, we apply principles, until by and by, 
 
 162 
 
this mind which we have trained knows itself and gains 
 control over itself. 
 
 I cannot trace the process except briefly. Why does 
 a child first learn to read ? It is so as to follow a line of 
 thought slowly and understandingly. Why take arithme- 
 tic ? So as to think in numbers and about things. And 
 why take algebra? So as to see the negative as well as 
 the positive side of truth, so as to deal with symbols 
 which require so very much more care. By slow steps 
 come the processes of geometry, when lo and behold, the 
 mind begins to see its own self, its own living process. 
 
 Now all this is restraint and guidance. When this 
 is done, or while it is doing, we introduce this same mind 
 to the beauties of literature and art and to the delights of 
 music. All this is an awakening, a restraining, a guid- 
 ing process. It may be gotten in college and may be got- 
 ten out of it. Those men like Mr. Lincoln who get the 
 training outside of college halls call themselves self-made 
 men. But whoever gets the thing is a self-made man. 
 
 The process is not without difficulties and some men 
 and women have toiled long and painfully to give the 
 world the best that was in them. It took forty years to 
 make Buffon the prince of naturalists. Walter Scott was 
 for years merely a copying clerk in an Edinburgh law 
 office. But the pains-taking drudgery made him the pains- 
 taking writer and the sanest and most eminent of English 
 novelists. Madame Sand wrote one hundred and thirty 
 fair-sized volumes, every one of them a classic. Such are 
 some of the services that may be rendered by a mind 
 once controlled and trained, in college or out. 
 
 But what do we mean by thoughts? I think most 
 men here and elsewhere at first have the idea that to be 
 thinkers we must be statesmen or lawyers, ministers or 
 
 163 
 
teachers, poets or historians. We must deal with words. 
 But engineers also are thinkers, so are superintendents 
 and bosses of shops, and all intelligent day laborers, 
 men who deal with things. A town, constructed of wood 
 or brick or stone, built by masons and carpenters is just 
 as much a series of thoughts as is the city that John des- 
 scribes in Revelation, the New Jerusalem coming down 
 from God out of heaven. Thoughts are not confined to 
 words. Men can think steam engines, electrical appli- 
 ances, house furnishings, and decorations. We say that 
 Roman Law is a complicated system of thought, but so 
 is the Pennsylvania Railroad. Justinian secured by his 
 thought the formulation of the one, and by doing it 
 brought security to all later government ; Mr. Scott, Mr. 
 Thompson, and Mr. Cassatt have perfected the other and 
 by means of it have given us cheapness, comfort, speed, 
 and safety in travel. 
 
 Look about you in this beautiful building. There is 
 not an object in it that is not an embodied thought. The 
 whole was in the mind of Mr. Hazelhurst, the architect, 
 before it took visible form. Part after part gradually 
 passed through and before the mind of Joe Alexander, 
 the builder, as it took form. There is not a timber, nor 
 truss, nor brick, nor tiling, nor plank, nor nail, nor light 
 of glass, nor chair or any part of it that has not been 
 through some man's brain. 
 
 I am dwelling on this because of an infinite world of 
 possibilities it opens up to us all. It is a consolation that 
 we shall not be obliged to be maligned lawyers in the 
 future, or weakling preachers, or poorly-paid school mas- 
 ters. A larger world is open to us, and if we can give any 
 useful thought a material form or do some act, however 
 humble, which will please or give help or comfort, so far 
 
 164 
 
forth shall we show our worth. Joseph Chamberlain has 
 just been elected again to represent the city of Birming- 
 ham in Parliament. It was his father's fortune that en- 
 abled the son to go to parliament the first time, and the 
 father got his fortune by the thought of a screw with a 
 tapering point. 
 
 I know a humble Irishman who earned an enviable 
 reputation by tending a railroad crossing. It was a hum- 
 ble thought but he put it into act. It was a grade cross- 
 ing seven miles out of Boston. John Welch tended it 
 every day in the week for over thirty years, and was not 
 absent from duty a week all told in all that time. When 
 the Albany Railroad sank its road-bed twelve feet, the 
 old man's job was done. No man in that town was more 
 honored, not for his private character, but because he had 
 intended to keep that broad crossing safe from fatalities 
 and really had done so for a generation. 
 
 'There is land to westward," said Columbus, and per- 
 sisted in his thought. How long, toilsome, and saddening 
 were all those years until they ended in the phrase, 
 "Land ahead." That was his thought at last come true. 
 It proves, as Lowell says, that "One day with life and 
 heart is more than time enough to find a world." 
 
 There is always opportunity to contribute a new 
 thought. Roosevelt headed the rough riders ; John Wan- 
 amaker thought the department store; John Fritz, of 
 Bethlehem, invented the great steam compressors; Wil- 
 liam Pepper enlarged the University of Pennsylvania; 
 Charles W. Eliot revolutionized American education. In 
 about fifteen years only William Rainey Harper walked 
 to the head of our college presidents, founding the Uni- 
 versity of Chicago and leaving it with a reputation and 
 an endowment of seventeen millions. Was he a successful 
 
 165 
 
man of business, or a successful president? What shall 
 we say? We may say both, for he excelled in each. 
 Think how the thoughts of our monied men are taking 
 form these later years. Think to what uses Mr. Carnegie 
 is putting his money, and of the future of the Rhoades 
 scholarships. These are instances where new thoughts 
 apply themselves to new opportunities, and things are 
 done quite unlike anything men have previously heard of. 
 
 But of course these are big opportunities and they 
 open up to men of big means. Well, then, let us strike 
 your level and my level. Every man can begin with soap 
 and blacking. Every man can pay attention to the neat- 
 ness of his own person, which surely is one of the 
 speediest ways of conciliating other people's good will. 
 Every one can give a thought to his own appearance, his 
 own outward habits and so pave the way to other things. 
 Get accustomed to thinking that men ought not to pay 
 you above the value of your thoughts. If you can think 
 only log cabins, they will not pay you the legacies that 
 were given Mr. Richardson out of whose brain came 
 structures like Phillips Brooks's Church in Boston and the 
 noble Allegheny Court house in Pittsburgh. 
 
 Suppose you have only a very humble thought, if it 
 will benefit your fellow men or will advance your business 
 by injuring nobody, why let the world have your thought. 
 The world likes something new and will pay for it in 
 money or in honor. Dennison invented tags to put on all 
 sorts of articles. There was a fortune in it. An invalid 
 invented the game called "Pigs in Clover" and so got rich. 
 Day and Marten of London sent a man to write the adver- 
 tisement of their blacking on the pyramids of Egypt. 
 They set London by the ears at the insult, and so secured 
 
 166 
 
which was their thought a greater market for their 
 blacking. 
 
 I have said, thus far, that a man is worth what he 
 can think ; that he can and does think in things as well as 
 in words ; that for this reason, an infinite world of possi- 
 bilities opens up to men. And now comes my best 
 thought, that a man all through this world must have 
 respect for other's thoughts. 
 
 What a record of his thoughts man has left ! He has 
 catalogued the stars and knows their constitution. He 
 has analyzed the flowers and classified the animals and 
 put to various uses the minerals. He has delved under 
 the earth and set in order its structure. He has found 
 philosophy. He has written the Bible, the Greek drama, 
 and Shakespeare. The ruins of his earlier greatness 
 mark every continent of the earth. But his greatest 
 thoughts have been respect to other men's thoughts. And 
 the young man who thinks must learn that others think 
 also. In that thought he will get both the good view and 
 the bad view of men, will learn what they need and what 
 they can do, will learn patience and charity. Is he am- 
 bitious? So are they. Do his thoughts pass for learn- 
 ing? So do their's. He must learn to wait. He must 
 learn how to gain a hearing. 
 
 If education and religion are seeking to spread their 
 thoughts abroad, it is equally true that ignorance and 
 crime have their thoughts and are more insistent to get 
 a hearing. Look at established custom in society, in 
 church, in state. Are they almost impervious to new 
 thoughts? How shall a man who has a noble idea, as 
 Jesus had, as Paul had, how shall he convince society that 
 there is a need of his idea? Such a question as this is a 
 
 167 
 
hard question. It calls for self-denial, for long waiting, 
 and, like as not, for torture and crucifixion. 
 
 There certainly are calls enough for wisdom of word. 
 We never can have too many statesmen, or too many 
 preachers, or too many teachers. And so too, we never can 
 have too many useful appliances and inventions, too many 
 of those practical thoughts that result in more comfort to 
 our daily life. But we need the thought of charity more 
 than any of these. We need an enlargement of thought 
 toward others. We need to chastise envy and ambition in 
 ourselves. Envy would trip up a man whose thought 
 would make him more famous or more prosperous than 
 we. Ambition would forestall such a man, even trample 
 on him to attain its reward. 
 
 These are days when a few men have gained enor- 
 mous influence through wealth and the appliances that 
 have enabled them to get wealth. Wealth so accumu- 
 lated, especially when it combines with other wealth, does, 
 after a time, set forces into operation for which no one 
 man seems wholly responsible. The machinery, be it in 
 business or in the churches, grinds on and overrides the 
 thoughts of the competitor. It is blind, heartlessly so, 
 to the benefits he might confer. 
 
 The issues of life are so varied, the means and oppor- 
 tunities through which we may be of service to our fel- 
 lows are so unlimited in number that amid all this con- 
 fusion of thought we need the thread of Ariadne to guide 
 us. 
 
 Serve your fellow men and obey God. That is the 
 thread that will lead us through the maze of our mod- 
 ern life. By determining to serve his fellow men, a man 
 will think of good things, of helpful things. With such 
 a motive he will fight against deceit in himself and in 
 
 168 
 
others. He will argue for a good cause. He will preach 
 a sermon full of his own sincere convictions. He will 
 not write a novel down to a certain level where it will 
 sell, but up to a certain level where every word and char- 
 acter in it will elevate. He will do a good job. He will 
 not need the eye of the boss to watch him, and he will 
 not be watching the face of the clock. And if he obeys 
 God he will learn the thought that the issues of life are in 
 God's hands. In fluctuations of circumstances over 
 which he has no control he will be calm, because God 
 rules. The man that keeps his heart with daily diligence, 
 whispers hourly to wit: "Whatsoever things are true, 
 honest, just, pure, lovely, of good report, think on these 
 things." 
 
 Delivered in the Auditorium, January 21, 1906. 
 
 XIII. SUCCESS THROUGH MONOTONY 
 
 "And the man of God was wroth with him, and said, Thou 
 shouldest have smitten five or six times; then hadst thou smitten 
 Syria till thou hadst consumed it: Whereas now thou shalt smite 
 Syria but thrice." II Kings 13:9. 
 
 An old man knows the value of repeating a thing, 
 of doing it over and over again. To a young, untried 
 man such a repetition is often tiresome and monotonous. 
 The old man knows that success in this world is likely 
 to come through what seems to the young man mere 
 humdrum. 
 
 But notice first the pulse-beat of the universe is one 
 unceasing monotone. It is that which strikes us more 
 than any and all things else. We know not the essence 
 
 169 
 
of the ether which pervades all space, but we know it 
 pulsates in one unceasing vibration. The stars and 
 planets in their turn return with absolute regularity. The 
 seasons yearly renew their story, winter and summer, 
 dreariness and cold, verdure and warmth, death and life ; 
 so is the story repeated to a thousand generations. 
 Niagara falls incessantly over its precipice and silently 
 cuts the gorge before it. Its slow retreat goes hourly on 
 for six or ten, perhaps thirty thousand years. Stand on 
 the beach, and day and night you see its surf rise and fall, 
 an unending roar on "the naked shingles of the world." 
 
 Again, men come to love and trust in this monotony 
 as they grow accustomed to it. They come to imitate it. 
 How is it in our common life? In minor daily, apparent- 
 ly unimportant, matters we depend upon the regular beat, 
 the regular recurrence of the daily round. How else are 
 we to know the truth of things ? There is no real truth 
 in one event, in one occurrence, in one assertion. To 
 know that a man is truthful, we must know that his 
 word has been kept on several, on many occasions. We 
 must test his invention or himself by repeated occasions. 
 If we do not know him we require a certificate of him 
 from some one whom we do know, so that by it we may 
 understand that he has repeatedly done such and such 
 things, things which determine his truth and fitness. 
 
 We require this of man's works as well as his word, 
 for his works are his words. What a man says must be 
 proved true by many repetitions, and what he does, that 
 which proceeds as a product from his hand, must be 
 proved in the same way. Almost the first thing you be- 
 come conscious of on an ocean steamer is the throb of the 
 propeller. Especially is this true when you get out of 
 sight of land and are settling down to the voyage. How 
 
 170 
 
tiresome it then becomes! But let that throbbing stop, 
 let it continue silent for a while and you will find your 
 thoughts taking painful turns. "When shall we get to 
 port? Shall we ever get there? We may drift indefi- 
 nitely. We may never see the Old World." How com- 
 fortable a sensation it is when you feel the pulsations 
 begin again. The monotony is become the sweetest 
 music. 
 
 It is an inspiration to be well on toward the end of 
 a long train and see perhaps two locomotives ahead of you 
 bending around a curve of several miles. How playfully 
 they seem to chase each other over the dreary spaces 
 of Arizona or New Mexico. It is that graceful monotony 
 of the "drivers" that gradually brings you over the thou- 
 sands of miles. So as a traveler if you are well assured 
 before the steamer leaves her pier, or before the locomo- 
 tive leaves its station, that the machinery in each case Is 
 in perfect running order and good for the day's run or 
 the trip from shore to shore, why that assurance puts an 
 element of strength into all your other plans. 
 
 Just before I entered college, I bought a watch at 
 second hand which cost me only twelve dollars. It was a 
 Waltham, P. S. Bartlett grade, in a silver case. I had it 
 twenty-seven years and the jeweler several times said, 
 "That watch is worth a gold case. You will never get a 
 better time-keeper." How proud a man is of such a pos- 
 session ! And how natural it is that we should be proud 
 of man's products when they harmonize with nature in 
 their accuracy and their monotony of truth. 
 
 Another point: Men always make their reputation 
 and gradually determine their character and sometimes 
 secure their fortune by the accuracy with which they re- 
 peat themselves. You may perhaps recall the character 
 
 171 
 
of Tim Linkinwater in Nicholas Nickleby. "It's forty- 
 four year," said Tim, "forty- four, year next May, since I 
 first kept the books of Cheeryble Brothers. I've opened the 
 safe every morning all that time (Sundays excepted) as 
 the clock struck nine, and gone over the house every night 
 at half past ten (except on Foreign Post nights, and then 
 twenty minutes before twelve) to see the doors fastened 
 and the fires out. I've never slept out of the back attic 
 one single night. There's the same mignonette box in 
 the middle of the window, and the same four flower-pots, 
 two on each side, that I brought with me when I first 
 came. There ain't such a square as this in all the world. 
 There's not such a spring in England as the pump under 
 the archway. There's not such a view in England as the 
 view out of my window ; I've seen it every morning be- 
 for I shaved, and I ought to know something about it." 
 Old Tim had grown to be the confidential clerk of the 
 Cheeryble Brothers. And how pathetic the words really 
 are. But many a man in many a town is constantly liv- 
 ing the same accurate life. 
 
 Being some years ago in the town where I had lived 
 off and on for over thirty years, I inquired "Where is so 
 and so?" "Oh, he is still alive." "What is he doing?" "Oh, 
 what he always has done" To my certain knowledge he 
 had for sixty years or more gone into the city adjoining, 
 his whole duty to sell carpets, and that work he had done 
 so monotonously well that for a generation he had brought 
 the stream of trade to this place. The coat I have on was 
 made by a man who has made clothing for me for over 
 fifty years. I said to him three or four years ago, "Do 
 you ever get to Boston?" "Well, very seldom." "You 
 go to Springfield ever?" "Well, I've been there two or 
 three times." No, he had never been out of the state. 
 
 173 
 
But he knew clothes. He knew when a garment fitted. 
 His trade brought him nice customers. He became man- 
 nerly and informed and a perfect gentleman through daily 
 contact with the very nicest people. But they had been 
 drawn to him by the unceasing monotony with which he 
 did business. For he was always there. You always 
 could depend upon his unerring judgment, and you felt 
 safe in his hands. You knew, when he said so, that you 
 were well dressed, and that the goods you wore would do 
 you service as he guaranteed. 
 
 Now, I said that men make their reputation and their 
 character and sometimes their fortune in this way. 
 Notice how I put in that word "sometimes. 1 " In regard 
 to making your reputation or character anywhere there 
 is no question. You will make that and will not fail to 
 make it, and you will make it by the accurracy with which 
 you repeat yourself. If you have a work to do, always 
 do it a little better than before, if you can. Always do 
 it on time, always do it according to specifications. 
 Never let the product fall below what you have done be- 
 fore. Think of the scores of menial things that have to 
 be done in any town or village. The man that can do 
 some, can do any, of these with approximate perfection 
 and neatness and care and reliability will surely win the 
 good name. It may be only occasionally that a man's 
 fidelity may win him fame and fortune. 
 
 The opportunities, and hence the fortunes or the 
 great names, do not come equally to all, but ought it not 
 to be a pleasure, an inspiration, to know that out of our 
 faithful monotonous doing of duty we can reap that which 
 is, after all, worth more than a fortune? Does not the 
 Good Book say that "a good name is rather to be chosen 
 
 173 
 
than great riches and loving favor than silver and gold ?" 
 But the loving favor each can win for himself. 
 
 "The trivial round, the common task, 
 Will furnish all we ought to ask: 
 Room to deny ourselves, a road 
 To bring us daily nearer God." 
 
 Another point : The main duty of our life is to get 
 into our monotony. We are preparing for life now. Our 
 college courses seem to say and they make us feel that in 
 a few months we shall be headed so and so. And doubt- 
 less in most cases we shall be. Mechanical and civil and 
 electrical and mining engineers, chemists, agriculturists, 
 and here and there a teacher or a business man yes, I 
 imagine that ninety per cent, of us will be doing pretty 
 nearly what we had all along intended to do. 
 
 But to begin and to settle down into the monotony 
 of it is not a very agreeable, no, it is sometimes a very 
 disagreeable, thing. I recall distinctly a young man who 
 had given himself to the ministry. His work of prepara- 
 tion for the profession went on unhindered. He was set- 
 tled over his first church and it was a more than usually 
 pleasant one and in a pleasant town and well located. 
 But that town of five thousand inhabitants had not a half 
 dozen college graduates in it. The people in his church 
 were all working people engaged in shop or farm. He 
 must preach to them, must visit them, must receive visits 
 from them, must visit their sick and bury their dead. Oh, 
 how hard it was to settle into the monotony of being a 
 preacher to this people, a sympathetic pastor of such a 
 people, how hard to settle to the level of their thought and 
 conversation. The Greek any man has studied is of no 
 value to him at such a time. The Latin, just the same ; 
 and the French or German, just the same. People will 
 
 174 
 
tell you that your Modern Languages will be of immed- 
 iate help to you, but you will find them just as immed- 
 iately helpful as the ancient ones. It is astonishing how 
 much a man does not thumb dictionaries when he gets 
 into real life. All his systematical theology, or theoret- 
 ical chemistry, or higher mathematics generally has to 
 make way for a religion that must apply to daily individ- 
 ual cases and for specific problems, most of which are 
 settled not so much by knowledge altogether as by a con- 
 siderable degree of common sense. So that if a man has 
 been sagacious enough to use his good sense during his 
 college course and not wholly to forget it as men too often 
 do, why such a man will gradually settle down into any 
 new condition and make it profitable. But he will find 
 a painful monotony at the start. Nothing will be as ideal 
 as he had forecast it. 
 
 But I have not a particle of pity for the man who 
 must settle down to the monotony in new and hard con- 
 ditions and with meagre pay. These things are as they 
 should be. These untoward conditions are not untoward. 
 They are the intended tests to his fidelity and patience. 
 Under these conditions alone can he show the stuff that 
 is in him. He can show the spirit with which he will 
 strike and whether he has in him any of the qualities of 
 which sterling men are made. No man is ready or 
 worthy to receive the large recompenses and honors of 
 life until he has been tested by some years of monotonous 
 and perhaps servile responsibility, for only thus can his 
 worth be known. 
 
 But again the monotony must be that of a living, 
 breathing organism, and not the monotony of a fossil. 
 There are trilobites whose record is left only in the rock 
 strata, while there were once others that lived and 
 
 175 
 
breathed and moved about with the changing tide. You 
 may split a stratum of rock and find the leaf or the bird 
 track imprinted there. You thus open up a silent record 
 hidden for centuries, one that might have been hidden 
 for milleniums, monontony without life and almost with- 
 out use. But look at the leaf on the tree or the bird on 
 the wing. Monotonous is the leaf's unchanging swing. 
 Automatically almost does the bird fly to its nest and re- 
 turn. With the morn it unvaryingly begins its matins or 
 makes the nighfall sacred with its note. How much more 
 beautiful, more useful the monotony of the living than 
 the monotony of the dead thing. The one is dead and 
 belongs to a dead past and is sealed in a rocky tomb where 
 it must lie in one unending monotone of silence, but the 
 other is a monotony of life, of life that is a part of all 
 living things ; of life that spends itself in contributing to 
 the monotonous music of all living things; a monotony, 
 the essential part of whose nature is to change with the 
 changing seasons; to be green and full of life when the 
 season comes, or to glorify the face of nature with red 
 and purple and gold when the time returns ; to hurry with 
 impatient and yet unerring wing when the snow line 
 warns, or with the monotony of a like eagerness to build 
 its nest and rear its young among opening leaves and fra- 
 grant blossoms. 
 
 Yes, nature calls us to monotony, only let us make it 
 a monontony that is not the slave of mere habit, or the 
 slave of our trade or our profession, not the slave to the 
 hour of the day, or the department of work, or the com- 
 mand of the man above us. Let us learn to go to our life 
 and our life's work with the willingness to be commanded 
 and yet not wholly yielding the desire to command ; with 
 the willingness to yield to other's initiative where we 
 
 176 
 
must, and yet not wholly losing a supple command of our 
 own. The fossil man is the real hireling. He is content 
 to be set in motion or at rest by the bell. His tale is so 
 many bricks a day. He keeps the hours specified. If a 
 professional man he talks in the language of the lawyer, 
 or the doctor, or the preacher, and draws his fee. He 
 feels all the conditions and yet he feels none of them. He 
 is not interested either in your property, or your body, or 
 your soul as a man with living, sympathetic habit should 
 be. And it is this enthusiasm of interest, this eagerness 
 for his work, that every man should bring with him into 
 life and into what life lays to his hand. Any living work 
 to be done in this world by any living man is connected 
 by so many cords with the work that other men are do- 
 ing, that, if a man's sympathies are broad enough and 
 active enough, he can get discipline a plenty and accom- 
 plishments the most perfect and experience and enjoyment 
 to the full, if he will only render his service heartily and 
 manfully and constantly and with sympathy to the whole 
 organism of which he is an essential part. 
 
 The old prophet and the young king. Let us turn in 
 closing to this scene in the prophet's death chamber. 
 Elisha more than eighty, for fifty years a prophet, was in 
 his dying bed ; Joash, the young king, not over thirty, was 
 untried as yet in the details of government. The old 
 man resolute in death, the young king bending over him 
 despondent at his death and crying out in the very lan- 
 guage which Elisha had used years before as he parted 
 from Elijah: "My father, my father, the chariots of 
 Israel and the horsemen thereof." The old prophet rais- 
 ing himself in the bed. His hasty commands, one follow- 
 ing another, to the king. "Take thy bow and arrows. 
 Put thy hand upon the bow. Open the window; shoot 
 
 177 
 
Jehovah's arrow of victory, even the arrow of victory over 
 Syria. Take the arrows. Smite on the ground. Thou 
 shouldest have smitten five or six times; then shouldest 
 thou have smitten Syria until thou hadst consumed it." 
 
 This is a scene, a scene of scenes, worthy of a 
 painter. It is the old lesson of age advising youth, grey 
 hairs on the one side, untried youth on the other ; the life 
 full of years that has had volumes of experience and can 
 almost read the future from the past ; the life that knows 
 the value of conviction and decision and a high purpose. 
 On the other hand is the untried life, the life that does 
 not yet understand the values that underlie mere every 
 day living, that knows not the dangers, the possibilities, 
 the responsiblities, which are revealed to the eyes of the 
 older man. 
 
 Our conditions today are not dissimilar. It is an 
 older man addressing several hundred younger men. It 
 is not a prophet exhorting a king, and yet every grey- 
 haired man has earned, by the experiences of a life right- 
 ly lived, the right to be in part a prophet. Every young 
 man has the possibilities that are kingly. It is not Syria 
 and Damascus that lie outside the window there to be 
 fought and overcome. No, it is not that; but it is life 
 as it will confront us, nay, as it does confront us. When 
 advised by those of experience to make issue with this life 
 right now, to take life seriously, to strike with the passion 
 of one who means to strike repeatedly and indefinitely, 
 let us do so with the vigor of conviction such as shows 
 that we believe in a real enemy and in a real work to be 
 done and in a real ideal to be attained ; with a vigor, too, 
 that shows we are bound to put in our strokes where the 
 noblest before us have struck, and to continue, even at the 
 
 178 
 
plodding humdrum pace, with the ideals that we have re- 
 ceived from an ancestry of plodders. 
 
 Brothers, let us learn to love the monotony of the 
 stars and the seasons, the monotony of the birds and the 
 flowers, the monotony of that thing which we call law, 
 the monotony of conscience on the scientific side, but 
 which, on the side of the heart, we know to be the infinite, 
 unchanging love of God. 
 
 Let us learn lovingly to contribute our share to this 
 infinitely repeated pulsation of the eternal love. Let us 
 learn to acquiesce in it, whatever be the conditions, under 
 whatever skies, among whatever changes. Only frag- 
 ments of the old Hebrew Melodies and the old Greek 
 music, remain in the world, but they make that Gregorian 
 music whose monotone and simplicity constitutes its 
 grandeur, and separates it from the passing music of the 
 hour. Let us catch the fragments, in the Bible or out of 
 it, of that harmony which has always dwelt in all souls 
 who have made the will of God their constant duty, the 
 love of God their daily law. 
 
 Delivered in the Auditorium, June 3, 1906. 
 
 XIV. MOULDED BY AN IDEA. 
 
 A Brief Memorial of President George W. Atherton. 
 
 Very, very impressive was the face of our dead Presi- 
 dent as he lay here in his casket last summer. It seemed 
 not of flesh but of marble, chiselled by some contemporary 
 of Phidias, and seasoned somewhat by the lapse of time. 
 
 It showed us plainly this: that nature is a sure and 
 effectual sculptor, that the thoughts and emotions of men 
 gradually chisel themselves on the form and in the fea- 
 
 179 
 
tures. The ugly face of Socrates was made attractive by 
 his inner thoughts. In some of the faces of the early 
 Caesars you can read the grandeur of the Roman Empire. 
 Dr. Atherton was an unsually impressive personality. In 
 a body of assembled college presidents he was second to 
 none in this respect. 
 
 An idea contributed to this distinction of personality ; 
 the presence and constant operation of this idea rendered 
 him an object worthy of careful study ; he showed himself 
 one of those few very few men, whose characters will 
 bear study, and which must be studied to be understood. 
 
 The idea I refer to was this : He thought of himself 
 constantly as the President of The Pennsylvania State 
 College. This thought was uppermost in him always. 
 If one did not get hold of this clue he did not understand 
 Dr. Atherton. Many thought him enigmatical. Some 
 failed entirely to understand him. To a few he was an- 
 tipathetic, but it was because they had not touched him 
 sympathetically in the idea that dominated him. After 
 1882, when he came to take charge of the work here, he 
 was emphatically the President of The Pennsylvania 
 State College. That thought moved, swayed, ruled and, 
 toward the end controlled and wholly absorbed him. 
 
 And let me impress this fact : He was not the Presi- 
 dent of The Pennsylvania State College which he found 
 here, but of the college which was to be here; the college 
 which he has gradually been bringing here; the college 
 which, in spite of slow legislation and opposition, is here, 
 and is here to stay. 
 
 A man coming here to a college so remote, so little 
 known, so small, might easily have found it no great in- 
 spiration. But he came to this little village, call it bunch 
 of houses rather, with as much pride as he would have 
 
 180 
 
gone to Cambridge or to the presidency of his own col- 
 lege at New Haven, because he saw from the first, not 
 the college that was, but that was to be. He lived not 
 among the half dozen that were then graduating, but 
 among the throngs that were to graduate. Pennsylvania 
 was to his thought an empire. This was the most ideal 
 location in it. From the start, he dreamed of its extend- 
 ing avenues and walks and its noble buildings and throng- 
 ing scholars. It was his Oxford, rather say, his Jerusa- 
 lem, The Pennsylvania State College. 
 
 I came here to see the college on the Saturday before 
 commencement, 1892. For two hours and more, busy as 
 he was, he went with me over the campus and among the 
 buildings. He said : "I want you to go to my Mt. 
 Pisgah," and he took me up to the top of "Old Main" 
 and showed me "all the land of Gilead unto Dan." But 
 what entertained me most was that I never saw in any 
 man a greater enthusiasm for an idea than I saw in him 
 that day. I have seen him on a thousand occasions since 
 and I never saw him when this idea was not in his 
 thought or when it could not be fanned suddenly into a 
 flame. 
 
 Furthermore, if you came as a member of his fac- 
 ulty, he wanted the same idea to take form in you. He 
 wanted the thought to dominate you as it did him. He 
 did not want you to come with the feeling that we were 
 small, that we did not compare favorably with other 
 colleges. He quickly resented comparisons where there 
 was the least disparagement of State. He would not ad- 
 mit that we were second to any college in the land. And 
 such thought will do most to make us the first. Any in- 
 structor who could not grasp President Atherton's idea 
 was not long retained on the force. He must have the 
 
 181 
 
Doctor's enthusiasm and it must be real; otherwise his 
 stay was of short duration. 
 
 The same was true with students who were not sub- 
 ject to rule, who disregarded the rights of property or in 
 any way departed from true manliness. He had seldom 
 forgiveness for them. He depricated their misconduct as 
 a blot on our escutcheon, as an unclean page on the record 
 of the noble institution which was in his dreams. 
 
 And furthermore, this idea he honored in the pres- 
 ence of all comers. It might be men from larger centres, 
 from older and more renowned institutions ; it might be 
 committees of legislature; whoever it was, he made no 
 apologies for this college, although it had as yet no name. 
 He gave all to understand that this college, in the spirit 
 of its foundation, with the State of Pennsylvania to back 
 it, in its location, and purpose, and outlook, was second 
 to none. 
 
 This then was the idea that dominated Dr. Atherton. 
 Notice it in its operation and effects. 
 
 For the last seven years of Dr. Atherton's life I was 
 thrown into very close and tender relations with him. I 
 saw his heart laid open scores of times as no other per- 
 son did. I had the opportunity to test the sincerity of his 
 motives and the nobility of his convictions, probably more 
 so than any other person, and to me his life grew more 
 and more beautiful and rounded to completeness. 
 
 It is not yet two years since I asked him one Sunday : 
 "You are not in doubt as to the great fundamentals of our 
 holy religion?" He answered me with the tenderness of 
 one making a confession of faith and the tears were in 
 his eyes. I believe that he felt himself president of this 
 college under God, and sought to be ready at any moment 
 to give an account of his stewardship. 
 
 182 
 
Look back upon him now in the light of these 
 thoughts and see him transfigured. 
 
 Personally, how neat he always was, and gentleman- 
 ly and affable and considerate of others; consciously a 
 man every inch of him, every waking hour. 
 
 Seldom was he seen on the village street except as an 
 most regular attendant on church when the college was 
 not in session, or doing his duty as a voter, or attending 
 perhaps some burial. 
 
 He was thoughtful toward the poor as toward the 
 rich, and as considerate of the employees of the college as 
 of its faculty and students. In the silence of his office he 
 was quietly and unselfishly making a college and making 
 a village while others were studying how to make some- 
 thing out of the college or out of the village. 
 
 In his conduct as a president his ruling idea was al- 
 ways to the fore. At Sunday service he presided with a 
 quiet dignity uniform on all occasions, almost to the least 
 motion. No outside matter or announcement was al- 
 lowed to mar the order of service. The doctor of divinity 
 or the plain parson alike spoke without any introduction, 
 even on commencement occasions. In that way each ser- 
 vice was a worship of God, not of men. It was the divine 
 service of The Pennsylvania State College in dignity 
 and orderliness unsurpassed anywhere in the land. The 
 same was true of the daily chapel. He never failed to at- 
 tend it and it was a source of much pain to him that any 
 one needed to be exhorted to attend this service of a great 
 brotherhood worshiping the divine Father. 
 
 Ruled by this idea he presided over his faculty with 
 promptness. He came usually full of business and des- 
 patched it rapidly. If he were gone six months, in six 
 
 183 
 
hours after his return he was acquainted with all the cur- 
 rent details. 
 
 The position of such a man, seeking to convince leg- 
 islatures, to guide the counsels of trustees, to harmonize 
 the differences among schools and departments, to co- 
 ordinate departments in such a way that each shall have 
 its related place and share, to bear with as well as to in- 
 struct the great body of students, to keep in sympathetic 
 touch with the patronizing public, such a position requires 
 great generalship, and herein his ruling idea served a 
 noble purpose. 
 
 With that pride he was beginning to see fortune 
 smile at his long endeavor. How richly he enjoyed see- 
 ing his earlier dreams taking shape in the buildings erect- 
 ed in the early nineties, and in this Auditorium, and in the 
 Library, and McAllister Hall. With what pride the last 
 months of his life he stood in the anteroom here and 
 looked out upon what God had wrought. 
 
 He had been the unswerving optimist through it all. 
 His optimism was already making his dream a substantial 
 fact. 
 
 Then came the shadow, the shadow into which we all 
 must enter, and he passed as cheerfully into that as he 
 had previously travelled through the sunshine. 
 
 I had occasion to follow him with the depest sym- 
 pathy as he went to California that last winter. I could 
 see him moving about Los Angeles or riding down to the 
 pier at Long Beach. I have brave accounts of him. 
 The noble idea of more than twenty years was still 
 regnant in him. It healed all wounds, compensated for 
 all burdens, and reconciled him to withdrawing his hand 
 from the lever he had managed so long. 
 
 184 
 
No murmur of impatience or regret fell from his lips 
 during the long weeks of his last illness. He was cheer- 
 ful. Instead of needing cheer he cheered those around 
 him. He passed into the shadows embodying until the 
 last, the idea which had controlled him and which sees us 
 here today. He had never brought shame upon that idea, 
 but always honor. It was that idea that carved the lines 
 of strength and grace upon his features; and that same 
 idea, ruling in us, students, and teachers, and trustees, 
 and friends of the college, will make us an institution 
 honorable and to be honored. 
 
 Delivered in the Auditorium, May 26, 1907. 
 
 XV. HONORING ONE'S NAME 
 
 "And the Lord came, and stood, and called as at other times, 
 Samuel, Samuel. Then Samuel answered, speak; for thy servant 
 heareth." I Samuel 3:10. 
 
 How many instances we find in the Bible of men 
 called suddenly by their names. God calls to Adam. 
 Abraham is addressed abruptly. At the burning bush is a 
 voice: "Moses, Moses, put off thy shoes from off thy 
 feet." And on the way to Damascus there was heard a 
 voice: "Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me?" 
 
 There is a deep significance in many Bible names, 
 and the circumstances under which they are given are 
 sometimes of thrilling interest. Take, for instance, the 
 story of the naming of Ichabod, given in the chapter fol- 
 lowing that of the text. A battle is in progress between 
 the Israelites and the Philistines. The Israelites have 
 sent hastily to Shiloh for the Ark of God in hopes that 
 
 185 
 
it may give them victory. Eli, the priest attendant on 
 the Ark, is ninety-eight years old and cannot hurry with 
 it but goes part way. His daughter-in-law accompanies 
 him. Her husband is with the army. The priest and the 
 woman have stopped to rest by the road-side. The 
 butchery of battle is going on not far from them. And 
 yonder is dust in the road. A messenger quickly comes 
 up. He shouts aloud into the old man's ears : "Israel 
 is fled before the Philistines. There has been a great 
 slaughter. Thy two sons, Hophni and Phinehas are dead. 
 And the Ark of God is taken." Having heard the last 
 words of this awful climax the old priest falls backwards, 
 and his neck is broken. The dreadful news brings to the 
 woman the sudden pangs of child-birth, and death follows 
 in a few moments. Nothing can cheer her or retain her 
 in life. When asked what she will name the child she 
 replies : "Call him Ichabod the Inglorious," meaning 
 "the glory is departed." 
 
 Artlessly natural are the stories of the naming of 
 Samuel and John the Baptist, John the Beloved, St. John 
 Chrysostom, John Huss, John Calvin, John Wesley. 
 Picking up a book of genealogy the other day, I found 
 the name John given to the first-born son for five gener- 
 ations in succession. 
 
 In Bible times names were given to commemorate 
 some event, or as a prophecy of the future. And in many 
 cases the name made good. Abraham proved to be "the 
 father of a great multitude;" Israel was a "prince of 
 God;" Joshua proved a "deliverer;" and what shall we 
 say of Jesus, for that is the Greek way of spelling Joshua, 
 Jesus, that name which is above every name? "Thou 
 shalt call his name Jesus, for He shall deliver his people 
 from their sins." Has not He made good the name given 
 
 186 
 
Him ? May we not reasonably say, "There is none other 
 name under heaven given among men" ? 
 
 In our time also care is usually taken with the 
 choosing of a name. The name of some beloved and 
 honored relative is passed on with pride. There is given 
 to the child some name from history or literature, a favor- 
 ate with the parents, and believed to carry inspiration for 
 a noble life. And in nearly all cases the naming is done 
 formally in a church and is attended with baptism. The 
 giving of a name to a human being is a sacred thing. It 
 is not like naming a dog or a horse. There is solid rea- 
 son for giving a name to a man or a woman. The name 
 brings personality and dignity and responsibility. 
 
 And yet how many of us have ever dwelt seriously 
 upon the names which we bear? How many of us have 
 ever called ourselves by name, have ever spoken to our- 
 selves as though we were somebody else ? The name we 
 bear is worth repeating aloud occasionally to ourselves. 
 That name is to cling to us as long as we live. It and 
 our character are gradually to become one. We are to 
 make or to mar our name. It is that we must answer to 
 at the roll-call of God. We cannot escape or easily 
 change our name. When a man becomes a criminal he 
 sometimes changes his name. I have understod that 
 some corporations designate their employees by number 
 rather than by name. Can we think of any deeper insult 
 that could be offered us than to take away our name and 
 designate us by a number only? Should we like to be 
 criminals and obliged to assume a new name in each new 
 place to avoid the penalty of the law ? 
 
 Let me dwell on the fact that a name brings out a 
 man's personality. Our personality is our crowning gift. 
 It marks us out and distinguishes us from everybody else 
 
 187 
 
even from God himself. There is a sort of royal feel- 
 ing attached to our personality. We have a right to feel 
 as proud as our proudest neighbor, and when our best 
 impulses awake in us we do not want to be anybody else. 
 That is manliness, personality. 
 
 I think too that a man's real individuality often con- 
 fronts him for the first time some day while he is in the 
 act of writing his name on paper, slate, or blackboard. I 
 recall distinctly such an occasion in my own life while I 
 was yet in the grammar school; the time when I began 
 to write my name with consciousness and pride and care, 
 in the stereotype form in which I have written it ever 
 since, for nearly fifty years. That was the awkening of 
 my personality ; the arousing of my pride to be somebody, 
 to get an education ; the desire to draw away from harm- 
 ful influences and to seek nobler ones. 
 
 And I am convinced that none of us do anything as 
 we should do it until our name stands out so as to confront 
 our attention. "Samuel, Samuel!" Why, no wonder 
 the child awoke and ran to ask Eli what it meant. And 
 Eli's advice was full of insight and truth. Eli had not 
 succeeded in bringing up his own family of sons. They 
 could hardly have been worse than they were. But Eli 
 knew that the voice that called was the voice of God, and 
 he wisely gave Samuel advice what to do. 
 
 For every man "the voice of conscience is the voice 
 of God." When a distinct utterance calls within us and 
 says : "Do this. Dbn't do that," it is the call of God to 
 our personality, and if our personality responds to the 
 call it increases daily in what is its best good, because 
 its best good is its truth to itself. To arouse a man's 
 personality is to give him dignity. It is to separate 
 him entirely from other men : to make him stand out by 
 
 188 
 
himself ; to make him realize that being somebody is just 
 being himself. 
 
 It is not my birth, nor my natural gifts, it is not my 
 possessions, or my friends, or even my opportunities 
 which are the things of most importance to me. It is 
 the thing called myself. When I have grasped that idea 
 and learned to make the most of it I can make opportuni- 
 ties, I can rally friends around me. Even gifts themselves 
 can be enlarged indefinitely as soon as I learn to know 
 that / am ; that / can be good or bad ; that / can be gener- 
 ous or mean ; that / can store up knowledge or can live 
 and die a fool ; that / can live so that when I am gone my 
 name will be honored or execrated. 
 
 But such a personality and dignity entails a great 
 responsibility. 
 
 I have a friend who for twenty-five years has been 
 in the banking business and at the head of a clearing 
 house. It is said that if you could take his signatures 
 for all those years and put them one upon another they 
 would exactly fit each other. He knows the responsi- 
 bility that goes with signing his name to a draft or to a 
 check or, in fact, to any piece of paper. Weight is given 
 to a name which is signed with such uniformity. Such 
 signature means integrity and security. It becomes a 
 solemn seal. But when we play with our names, which 
 leads other people to take the same liberty, how can we 
 feel quite the same security? In the last fifteen years I 
 have received checks made out in more than a dozen dif- 
 ferent ways. But when the bank where I keep a tem- 
 porary deposit makes out a draft for me, it is always with 
 my name fully and properly written. And that is the 
 way to write it. It makes men feel that you are acting 
 
 189 
 
knowingly and conscientiously, that you are treating 
 yourself with dignity, that you are not slurring things. 
 
 How the circle of one's personality and responsibili- 
 ty is widened by the name. Think for a moment of the 
 Post Office Department of our government. Of what use 
 would it be if men had no names? How long could its 
 work go on ? In fact how could it go on ? All the mil- 
 lion articles which the Post Office handles bear a name. 
 Suppose I write five hundred letters a year to friends in 
 various parts of the world. The thing will cost me not 
 much more than fifteen dollars, and yet my influence is 
 extended indefinitely, just because of the value and con- 
 venience of a name. 
 
 For more than twenty years I had corresponded with 
 persons whom I had never seen, whose voices I had never 
 heard. They had become as dear to me as if I had met 
 them every day. Their correspondence, backed up by 
 their signatures, had become an indispensable part of my 
 life. I have had quite a close touch wtih many old stu- 
 dents. I have given them much advice whatever its 
 worth may have been. I have received heaps of comfort 
 from them. But it is really our names which have car- 
 ried the consolation. Our names have extended the 
 radius of our personality and given us a power otherwise 
 impossible. 
 
 And, do you know, in that way words are photo- 
 graphed, just as persons are or as landscapes are. I 
 found only a few months ago a letter written to me by an 
 older brother of mine forty-five years before. He had 
 gone to the West Coast. He was getting started in 
 work. I was trying to get an education. He had en- 
 closed me fifty dollars and said that more would be com- 
 ing if he succeeded and if I needed it. The long years 
 
 190 
 
had passed and all these things had escaped my memory. 
 But there was the letter, and there was the signature, pre- 
 cisely as he has written it to this day. I should think it 
 sacrilege ever to part with that letter. 
 
 In a few years, perhaps months, some of us will be 
 only a name. I was in a southern city a few days ago, 
 jostling others on its busy streets, my ears dinned with the 
 activities. In a few minutes I had left the electric car 
 and was in a National Cemetery where fourteen thousand 
 Union soliders are buried. There, row on row, stretch- 
 ing on indefinitely over many acres were the little stone 
 markers with nothing on them but a number and the 
 man's name and regiment, or, just the one word, "un- 
 known." 
 
 Well, soon all our activities will have been reduced 
 to a name. It will not be long until our visible, tangible, 
 person will have dropped out of sight and all that will be 
 left will be our names and the character that attaches to 
 each. Not one man in a million needs an expensive me- 
 morial. A marker with just the name is enough. How 
 significant, in the corner of the old burying ground in 
 Philadelphia is the inscription : "Benjamin and Deborah 
 Franklin, 1790." Knowledge and imagination can write 
 in the rest. 
 
 All that we leave behind us is the name and the traits 
 that are attached to it, and the greatest men succeed in 
 clearing their names so that they are known by them and 
 them only: Phillips Brooks, Henry Ward Beecher, 
 Wendell Phillips, Lincoln, Gladstone, Victoria. Small 
 men hunger after titles and are anxious to be known and 
 have all their titles written out. But the greatest men 
 slough off all that sort of thing. 
 
 191 
 
How things will stick to our names when we are gone 
 yes, while we live also. 
 
 Dip a magnet into steel filings and see how they stick 
 to it and radiate from it. There are a few hours during 
 which a man is being consigned to his mother earth when 
 we touch upon the better side of his life only. But let the 
 days go by and gradually what the man really was is what 
 he will get credit for. His failures will gradually come 
 and stick to his name like flies to the paper. Was he sel- 
 fish, was he unfeeling, or was he sottish or brutal, did he 
 neglect the finer feelings, did he disregard the common 
 courtesies of life? people will know about it. 
 
 Yes and they will know if the opposite things are 
 true, if he were generous, if he were patient, if he were 
 charitable, if he cultivated the religious sentiments. 
 
 And one of the strangest things in the world is that 
 to such a name as Washington there are added every de- 
 cade new glories. The moral treasures stored up in the 
 crude and unlettered Lincoln keep coming, yearly, more 
 and more into the light. On the other hand with the ad- 
 vancement of mind and the progress of true enlighten- 
 ment such names as Napoleon and Caesar lose their 
 charm. 
 
 The contemplation of a good character is like the 
 cutting of a diamond. The more work put upon it, the 
 greater is found to be its value. 
 
 The colored people have a hymn whose refrain runs 
 like this : "When the general roll is called, I'll be there." 
 Does not the Bible say : "Every one of us shall give an 
 account of himself to God?" You ask me if there will 
 be a last day, and a last judgment, when every man will be 
 called out by name to give an account of himself. I never 
 
 199 
 
like to answer such questions. The man who wants them 
 answered would not be satisfied. 
 
 I do know this : every day is a judgment day ; our 
 life is a continual name-calling. And every call ought 
 to meet its ready response. "Samuel, Samuel!" "Here 
 am I." "Saul, Saul !" "Lord, what wilt thou have me 
 to do?" You see in these Bible calls, how ready each 
 man is, when he hears, to obey. And I believe that the 
 march of human progress gradually tends toward this : a 
 time when men will hear more distinctly with their con- 
 science and will be prompt in their obedience. 
 
 Let me say in closing, that these calls spring up in 
 every man and on all occasions and in connection with all 
 duties. We need no burning bush. We need not to be 
 struck down in the road or caused to see a light above the 
 brightness of the sun. What we need is faithfully to fol- 
 low the inward voice. Shun the evil and choose the good 
 and do this in every calling and every event of life. It 
 was the midnight call to the little boy that gradually led 
 on to make that little boy, Samuel, the most honored of all 
 prophets. Let us ask Him to say: "Speak Lord, for 
 thy servant heareth." 
 
 Delivered in the Auditorium, September 20, 1908. 
 
 193 
 
XVI. CONSULTING OUR FEARS 
 
 "And when we departed from Horeb, we went through all 
 that great and terrible wilderness, which ye saw by the way of the 
 mountains of the Amorites, as the Lord our God commanded us; 
 and we came to Kadesh-barnea." Deuteronomy 1:19. 
 
 Kadesh-barnea was near the south border of the Holy 
 Land to which the Israelites were marching from their 
 Egyptian bondage. It was but a few days' march from 
 their destination. At this place occurred one of the 
 greatest defeats, without a battle, recorded in history ; for 
 from this town the Israelites turned their course back to 
 wander nearly forty years in the wilderness, hundreds of 
 thousands of them leaving their bones to bleach upon its 
 sands. So that "Kadesh-barnea" may well stand for 
 "borrowing trouble" and may teach us the evil result of 
 following our fears. 
 
 (i) I notice, first, that these people lost their pur- 
 pose ; they became aimless. 
 
 With all the enthusiasm of success Moses had broken 
 the connection of his people with Egypt. In the grey 
 dawn of that morning when Pharaoh and all his hosts 
 were drowned in the Red Sea, when they felt the freedom 
 of delivery, the possibility of being lifted into a nation, 
 then it was that the Israelites were first warmed with 
 patriotic fervor. These Israelites, now, could sing the 
 praises of God with timbrel and dance. It was the 
 awakening of a religious and national consciousness that 
 led them to break forth in words like these: "People 
 shall hear and be afraid. Sorrow shall take hold on the 
 
 194 
 
inhabitants of Palestine. Fear and dread shall fall upon 
 them. Thou shalt bring the people in and plant them in 
 the mountains of thine inheritance." This was an ancient 
 "Marseillaise." It was young patriotism, but pitched in 
 the highest key. 
 
 But what a contrast at Kadesh-barnea ! Moses has 
 sent out twelve spies to view the land. The people have 
 had their wish. Moses and they have consulted doubt 
 and fear. They are anxious to see all their troubles in a 
 piece : "the land, what it is ; the people that dwell in it, 
 whether strong or weak, few or many ; the land, whether 
 good or bad; the cities, whether tents or strongholds." 
 When these spies return, two of them have the courage to 
 say, "Let us go up and possess the land for we are well 
 able to overcome it." But the ten say, "We are not able 
 to go up against this people. They are too strong for us. 
 The people we saw in it were of great stature. We were 
 in our own sight as grasshoppers." 
 
 Perhaps they called this prudence. But where now 
 was their purpose? Contrast that morning battle hymn 
 with language such as this, "Because the Lord hated us 
 hath he brought us forth out of Egypt to deliver us into 
 the hands of the Amorites and to destroy us." Pitiable 
 words! After all they have seen and endured they are 
 ready now to turn back and to make bricks under the 
 burning sun of Egypt. The past sordid and bitter as 
 it has been is preferable to any future they can think of. 
 Here is a whole people aimless, in danger of rendering 
 the generation that follows them, and, in fact, all future 
 generations aimless. Such an attitude meant more than 
 death in the desert to a million souls. It meant the death 
 of a great movement, a stoppage of moral good that might 
 affect a thousand generations. 
 
 195 
 
But take, please, a noble impulse of any sort and it is 
 most difficult to start it in man or woman. Religion and 
 education, the influences of church and school and home, 
 are constantly bringing inducements to arouse in the 
 young the striving of a high aim. But oh how slow we 
 are to get an idea of what God wants of us or of what our 
 friends want of us, or of what we really want of our- 
 selves. 
 
 But sadder even than such cases are the instances of 
 people who have made a good start towards a better life 
 but who suddenly come to Kadesh-barnea, fall back, join 
 the aimless and unknown. They had a wish to better 
 themselves, but in an unfortunate hour they have seen 
 more difficulties than duty required them to see. And so 
 they have given up all further attempt. Just this moment 
 some difficulty has come that seems insuperable and be- 
 cause of that all effort and endeavor end. 
 
 There are many of you listening to me now whose 
 past life became to you only a few weeks ago, perhaps 
 a kind of Egyptian bondage. The farm, the shop, the 
 store, the village or town, yes even your home, became an 
 irksome restraint. Some appeal came to your better na- 
 ture. You were stirred by some book or some life. It 
 is under such influences that men are forced out into 
 achievement and greatness. 
 
 But such awakenings lead straight into difficulties 
 and dangers. These are the price we must pay for the 
 excellence we would win. I have seen men start to get 
 an education almost wholly under the influence of a 
 dream. Hardly a dollar in the pocket; working every 
 spare moment ; dropping out to teach in the winter ; get- 
 ting deeply into debt ; making poor progress in their work, 
 and finally arriving at "Kadesh-barnea." Health gone, 
 
 196 
 
money gone, no power to earn or borrow, they suddenly 
 arrive at the "mountains of the Amorites." They send out 
 spies to see if it will pay. They side with their fears and 
 surrender. 
 
 College men come to this sort of Kadesh-barnea. 
 They find the course they had chosen is burdened with 
 studies too hard to carry. They have been here only a 
 few weeks or perhaps a year and oh, it seems so long to 
 look to the end of the course. A lucrative business op- 
 portunity opens up. Why should they longer pursue the 
 object of their dreams ? Perhaps they have not "made it" 
 in some subject or subjects at the end of the second 
 month. That is not always the Kadesh-barnea though 
 to some fellows. It is the man who wants to look a long 
 way ahead, who wants to see all the giants, who wants to 
 cross all the bridges at once, and borrow all the trouble in 
 a piece, and fight all the battles in a day. 
 
 And that is the most painful period in a man's life : 
 the day, the hour, when, for some reason that may vanish 
 in a few hours, he concludes to slacken his hold upon the 
 purpose which has long inspired his nobler moments ; just 
 because, at present, something blocks the way ; just be- 
 cause at present, the road goes through the mountains so 
 that he cannot see it, or because a fog has settled on his 
 path. 
 
 Some years ago a young student came to bid me good 
 bye ; his funds had given out and he was going to give up. 
 I said : "Going to give up? And you had intended to go 
 into an honorable profession? You thought you had 
 some aptitudes for it? Now you will go back to your 
 job in the paper mill ? Look about," I said. "Do not go 
 for a day or two." He took my advice and he found a 
 
 197 
 
way, and for four years afterwards, and entered the pro- 
 fession to which he does honor. 
 
 If your purpose is of any value at all you must not 
 be too easily scared out of it. One of the things which 
 makes a purpose worth anything is its future promise. 
 Because of what there may be in it a man should wait a 
 long time before he gives it up. In struggle there is the 
 best kind of education. But, in aimlessness what is there ? 
 Our confidence is shaken in the man who fails to do what 
 he had set out to do. What it would have cost him, we 
 do not reckon with that. All achievement costs, even the 
 retaining of what we have achieved. Inventors must 
 guard against infringements. Writers must protect 
 themselves by copyright. Moneyed men must worry over 
 investments, and professional men over their positions. 
 If the faint-hearted or incompetent were justified in go- 
 ing back, there is scarcely one of us who would not sur- 
 render at once rather than toil on. But we do toil on, 
 because there is time before us. There are expedients. 
 If not by this road, we may gain our object by another. 
 If it is dark today it may be light tomorrow perhaps the 
 next hour. 
 
 But to be aimless! That is to be mere animal. It 
 is to forfeit God's nature. A man is great by his very 
 God-likeness. He is great by the truths he imbibes ; great 
 by the purposes that stir in him ; great by the labors he 
 assumes; great by his willingness to sacrifice; great by 
 his power to wait; great by his cheerfulness under diffi- 
 culties. 
 
 (2) By their cowardice, they caused their past ex- 
 perience to become valueless. An intelligent man lives 
 mainly on experience; first, on that of other men which 
 serves as an inspiration, and then upon his own exper- 
 
 198 
 
ience, which is his diploma and recommendation. He 
 needs a chapter here and there of what other men have 
 done in order to give him a start. But it is not very long, 
 if he is a true man, before his own experience is of most 
 service to him, and is really his best capital. 
 
 How many books have been written to inspire young 
 men and women, books on "Self-Help," on "Character," 
 on "Duty," on the "Pleasures of Life," on "Success." 
 But after a man once really catches their inspiration he 
 seldom finds time to read even such books. He has not 
 time to take lessons from other folks, his own experience 
 is piling up so fast. I really feel a heartfelt sympathy for 
 scores of men who do not seem to find time to read even 
 the Bible itself. Business pushes them. The interests of 
 hundreds, possibly thousands, of people are all bound up 
 in them. Competition requires painful alertness. New 
 openings demand new and immediate thought. Each 
 night has made additions to what they know and can do. 
 New experience finds new uses. 
 
 Gradually such fidelity and application tell. They are 
 serviceable wherever you may find them and they may be 
 transferred wherever you will. And that is the value of all 
 experience. You can pack it into a letter of recommenda- 
 tion. When a student comes here he brings his certificates. 
 They are the chapters of his past experience. Read 
 closely they are a sort of palimpsest, for underneath their 
 fair characters we can read the headaches he has had in 
 mathematics, and the tears he has shed over his English 
 spelling and over those dates that concern the landing of 
 Columbus and the Pilgrims and the founding of James- 
 town. Yes, these certificates are his past experience. 
 They give him the right to continue his experience here. 
 
 199 
 
While he stays here he piles up more experience. Term 
 by term his history is growing in the archives of the col- 
 lege. If he goes out into the world he may, in an emer- 
 gency, fall back on this college record. If, after years of 
 labor, he wants to transfer his services elsewhere he 
 simply carries his recommendations. These set him up 
 at once in a new place as permanently as if he had always 
 lived there. "What has this man learned ? What has he 
 done? What are his aptitudes?" These are questions 
 constantly recurring in regard to persons of all ages, all 
 ranks, all callings in life, and a man's past record makes 
 their answer more nearly possible. It is this past ex- 
 perience, stored up as it is in books or antiquities, which 
 saves the world from wasting its time in further experi- 
 ments. 
 
 But if a man at some time in his career comes to 
 Kadesh-barnea ; comes to the hour of deep discourage- 
 ment ; comes to where the "blues" seize him and hold him 
 as in the grip of a vise ; comes to the place from which he 
 is going back anyhow in spite of all you can say to him 
 or do for him : what, pray, is all that past experience to 
 such a man ? If he will go back to Egypt, if he has only 
 the ambition of a brickmaker, if he would rather feel the 
 smart of the master's whip than to endure suspense and 
 danger in the hope of a larger liberty, would rather suffer 
 the debasement of a slave than toil for the manhood which 
 is due to man; then, why should the Almighty display 
 himself in his delivery? Why should pillar of fire and 
 cloud go before him? Why should water burst from the 
 rock or manna fall from heaven for such as he ? Miracles 
 are wrought ! Yes ! But they are wrought only for the 
 Sons of God. Glory is due to encompass those alone who 
 have glory in view. 
 
 200 
 
What a picture-gallery of history these cowards of 
 Kadesh-barnea looked back into! What race or nation 
 can turn to a record of more thrilling pages ? But these 
 cowards ! They had learned no lesson of courage. They 
 had gained no increase of confidence in God. They had 
 not yet learned, after all this wonderful teaching, that no 
 future could ever be darker than their past had been. 
 And here the craven ones were turning their faces to- 
 wards the wilderness to die ingloriously, when the very 
 land was in their view, when its fruits fresh and beautiful 
 had greeted their eyes. Their purposes were abandoned, 
 and their experience thrown, so to speak, on the ash-heap. 
 
 (3) Their deliverers moved daily among them 
 though they were blind to the fact. Moving among them 
 all these forty years were Caleb and Joshua, the men who 
 should lead their children to final conquest. 
 
 But in a panic-fear like Kadesh-barnea, a man does 
 not seem to have sense enough to know that, if he is ever 
 to go on, it must be because of forces within himself. A 
 great many men, in their discouragement, think their help 
 is to come from somebody else. But it is to come from 
 themselves. A man can be helped most effectually by 
 himself. Outside help of my sort tends to pauperize a 
 man. His real help is in himself. It is he who must 
 assume the burdens, he who must face the dangers, he who 
 must shoulder the responsibility. Not all the money in 
 the world can carry a man over into the land of promise. 
 All his friends may martial their forces, but they cannot, 
 in combination, do certain things which shall be called his 
 success. 
 
 But there is a Caleb and a Joshua in every man. 
 There is an inward voice which cries, "We are well able to 
 go up and possess it." There are certain forces in every 
 
 201 
 
man which can face danger, which do have fight in them, 
 which do not know when they are beaten. But at Kad- 
 esh-barnea this struggling minority of our better nature 
 is killed by the voice of cowardice and the circumstances 
 that easily breed cowardice. 
 
 Be careful then how you give way to a temporary 
 discouragement. You did take up a purpose for your- 
 self. Be careful how you surrender it. It may be hum- 
 ble, but the fact that you have espoused it makes it hon- 
 orable. One of the wealthy young Vanderbilts, a few 
 years ago, took a course in railroading. One of the sons 
 of the president is learning to manufacture carpets. Such 
 a choice brings honor to the man and not to the profes- 
 sion. A man's calling is the land of his dreams. It is 
 his Holy Land, if he pushes on into it and discourage- 
 ments do not turn him back. Until his vision opens upon 
 a larger one, it is for him, "a good land and a large, a 
 land of brooks of water, of fountains and depths that 
 spring out of valleys and hills ; a land of wheat and barley, 
 and vines, and fig trees and pomegranates, a land of oil 
 olive and honey." And yet it is a land of whose fruits 
 only the willing and obedient shall eat. 
 
 Be careful how you throw away that past in which 
 already the hand of God has been bared for your deliver- 
 ance. For every earnest man, miracles are wrought. 
 For him the Red Sea waves divide. For him the bitter 
 waters are made sweet. For him the manna falls. Not 
 from the chapters of the Bible only, but from the book of 
 our own experience also, may we read the hand of God's 
 deliverance. Should we then turn back ? Nay rather, let 
 us, with unyielding faith in God, allow the better forces 
 that are within us to keep on and work out their own 
 way. Kadesh-barnea. A crisis. It may come any day, 
 
 202 
 
any hour. Shall we turn back to slavery or push on to 
 freedom ? Shall we be slaves to sin or freemen in Christ ? 
 Shall we think that we are the victims of the universe or 
 shall we make the universe itself the victim to our higher 
 wish? Shall we not obey God? Shall we not push on 
 for God's land ? Shall there not blossom out and perfect 
 itself in us that larger life and wish which to us is even 
 more possible than to any generation of individuals pre- 
 ceding us ? 
 
 Delivered in the Auditorium, November 15, 1908. 
 
 XVII. SOME PRACTICAL BEARINGS OF A 
 BELIEF IN THE FUTURE LIFE 
 
 "Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, immovable, 
 always abounding in the work of the Lord, as ye know that your 
 labor is not in vain in the Lord." I Cor. 15:58. 
 
 Believing, as I do, that life is the most precious of 
 all God's gifts, believing that it grows more precious the 
 longer we live it, believing furthermore that none of us 
 can live it any too well, I am offering some hints to you 
 on this subject which I have already found helpful to my- 
 self. 
 
 Supposing that the argument of St. Paul is true, 
 then three things, at least, may be inferred from it : all the 
 emphasis of life is to be put upon the present ; the future 
 life is not a thing to be too much dwelt upon ; and man's 
 highest development can be secured only as we obey these 
 two previous questions. 
 
 203 
 
In a general way, we are taught to believe that the 
 emphasis of life is to be laid upon the present day, the 
 present hour, and the present fact. "Now is the accepted 
 time, behold now is the day of salvation." "Trust no 
 future however pleasant ; Let the dead past bury its dead ; 
 Act, act in the living present." "To serve the present 
 age, my calling to fulfill." 
 
 And furthermore if our souls are made in the image 
 of God then surely to lay emphasis on the present is the 
 soundest advice for us, for with God all is present. He 
 can have no past, no future. His work goes ever on, for- 
 ever finished forever unfinished, a constant miracle. 
 Every morning do the stars sing together as at creation's 
 birth. God's redeeming work goes on just the same as 
 when the angels sang at Bethlehem. 
 
 What can you point to in God's universe and say of 
 it: "That is old, outworn, passed its prime"? The 
 mountains yonder are in their youth as when they first 
 were reared. The waves break ceaselessly on all the 
 coasts of all the continents, forever advancing and for- 
 ever retreating as they have for thousands of years and 
 will for other thousands. They are unwearied, as is the 
 sun in his course rejoicing as a strong man to run a race. 
 God has no attic, so to speak, where He throws aside the 
 cast-off things of His former doing. No unseemly scrap 
 pile disgraces His universe. The old is blended with the 
 new in constant flux and as it dies it lives again, as it is 
 worn out and ready for rejection it is reabsorbed and helps 
 to remake the glorious whole. Nothing is old with God. 
 
 To lay emphasis on the present is in accord with the 
 very instincts of our souls. The manner in which we 
 discard things is worthy of careful notice. And the more 
 human activities increase the more is this true. The more 
 
 204. 
 
alert the soul becomes to know itself, the more will it be 
 true. Our grandfathers and great grandfathers wore a 
 broadcloth suit for years, and think of the "wonderful one 
 horse shay." We are impatient of last year's suit, or a 
 last year's bicycle, or a last year's book. It is not that we 
 turn our backs upon Homer and Virgil. We do the same 
 to Milton and Shakespeare; we are doing the same to 
 Dickens and Thackeray, and soon we shall to Mrs. Hum- 
 phrey Ward. We are not satisfied with our sciences as 
 taught by the old pioneers, nor with the methods of teach- 
 ing handed down to :us from Pestalozzi or Thomas Arnold. 
 We want to be permitted to see nature with our own eyes 
 and to instruct according to present necessities. 
 
 This is instinctive in us. We do not want some 
 theologian of the middle ages to tell us how we are to 
 worship or what we are to believe. We are impatient of 
 the formularies of Augustine and Luther, of Calvin and 
 Wesley. No man may now say to us, "Believe as I do at 
 the peril of your souls," because we do not believe that 
 any man is given the power to imperil our souls. And 
 so we follow the instinct of Jesus who read nature directly 
 and not through the schools. We prefer the natural glow- 
 ing language of Paul rather than the dry theology of the 
 school of Gamaliel. There is a naturalness of individu- 
 ality, of the mood, of the hour, in the Gospels of Matthew 
 and Mark and Luke and John that will always make them 
 enjoyable. It is the man who is thus absorbed in 
 the present who appeals to us, who can write well, and 
 speak well, and carry us with him. "I must do the works 
 of Him that sent me while it is day," said the greatest 
 of all men. And his greatest apostle declared, "I am will- 
 ing to spend and be spent for you." 
 
 205 
 
The gift of eternal life brings with it also this same 
 emphasis. Immortality and eternal life are, doubtless, not 
 one and the same thing. Immortality seems to be a part 
 of our original endowment as human beings. Eternal 
 life is the special gift of Jesus Christ, given to those who 
 follow Him, who pattern after, who trust Him. 
 
 When one attains for the first time the true con- 
 sciousness of eternal life, everything takes on a different, 
 look and a new value. A moral meaning is seen to un- 
 derlie everything. The universe is seen to be a sublime 
 opportunity which confronts the soul. The soul comes 
 to know God as the source and giver of all spiritual 
 power. It comes to know the value of soul upon soul. In 
 other words it comes to know the highest values that are 
 connected with life and living. It knows that it must use 
 the passing moment and the passing fact as a leverage to 
 higher things. 
 
 This general statement needs guarding, however. I 
 would not have you to understand that we must wholly 
 ignore the past and the future. No man can, with truth 
 to himself, live confined to any one of these periods of 
 time. For to live wholly in the past is to be a pedant ; to 
 live wholly in the future is to be a visionary; to live 
 wholly in the present is to be shallow and ineffective. 
 The only abiding actions are those that have reference to 
 all time and that is as true of the actions of men as of 
 God. 
 
 I might illustrate what I mean in this way: The 
 last work designed by Mr. White, of the McKim, Mead, 
 and White Company, is a bank building in Philadelphia. 
 It is in Roman style and finished in costly marble. It 
 leaves upon the beholder a sense of sublimity, of dura- 
 bility. The directors of that bank might have surround- 
 
 206 
 
ed their vaults with four plain walls covered in simply as 
 a shield from the weather. That would have served the 
 present use without any reference to the past or to the 
 future. But who would have cared to look at such a 
 bank ? It is because the architect allowed his remarkable 
 genius to work upon a past rich in examples that he 
 wrought out, with modern adaptabilities and conveniences, 
 a structure worthy to stand for a thousand years. 
 
 And just there is where true genius is seen in any of 
 the arts or in literature. It is the power to range over 
 all time and over all nature, and to take it all in, molding 
 it and fashioning it by the hand of a present genius. So 
 the Parthenon was reared, so Hamlet and Macbeth were 
 written, so the Bible grows out of the hearts of men. 
 What reverence for the beliefs of the past are carried 
 through its pages for two thousand years and more, only 
 to assure us that the reverence thus continued shall of 
 necessity still continue. 
 
 My second thought is, that the future life is not a 
 subject to be too much dwelt upon. 
 
 As things are constituted, we have no means of get- 
 ting at the subject satisfactorily. Our friends do not 
 rise from the dead and come back to us. If they could 
 do so, it is a question whether that other life would not 
 lose all the moral value it now has. And even if now 
 and then a man could rise from the dead, his doing so 
 would satisfy the curiosity of only a limited locality, and, 
 then, not very long. Furthermore, very little is said on 
 the subject in the Bible. Some declare there is no men- 
 tion made of it in the Old Testament. In the New Tes- 
 tament we have the few mysterious words of Jesus at the 
 tomb of Lazarus ; we have St. Paul's eloquent argument 
 in this chapter, with a few touches in one or two other 
 
 207 
 
letters; but there is no treatment of the subject exhaust- 
 ively. There is a marked difference in this respect be- 
 tween the Hebrews on the one side and such people as 
 the Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans on the other. 
 
 The Egyptians emphasized immortality to such a de- 
 gree that it filled nearly the entire circle of their religious 
 thinking. They developed the strange doctrine of trans- 
 migration. They embalmed the body that the soul, after 
 long periods of changes through other bodies, might come 
 back and find its former body preserved for occupation. 
 Of necessity they were obliged to reverence all grades 
 of animal life and gradually to deify it, until there sprang 
 up idolatry in most revolting forms. This was all in con- 
 sequence of their views of the future life. 
 
 Moses, being learned in all the wisdoms of the Egypt- 
 ians, when he came to legislate for the Hebrews, shut the 
 door on all this. He taught the Hebrews to believe in one 
 living, eternal, unseen God. This opened up a spirit 
 world with spiritual intelligences, to whom man is allied 
 by nature, being made in the image of God. Being alive, 
 man not only lives now but will, supposedly, live on. 
 The goodness and mercy that follow him all the days of 
 his life shall cause him to dwell in the house of the Lord 
 forever. Indeed, viewed from this standpoint, I think 
 that it will be found that the Old Testament is shot 
 through and through with the idea that the life we now 
 live is of indefinite continuance. Being in the image ot 
 God, being Sons of God, being commanded to love Him 
 with all our heart, soul, and might, is a proof that we are 
 permanent and enduring members of His family and that 
 our longings for length of life and for perfection of life 
 will be satisfied. The Greeks and Romans had no such 
 basis of belief, and therefore men like Socrates and, later, 
 
 208 
 
vo 
 <rr 
 
 W 
 
 
 
 
 *0 
 
 
 ^i^ 
 
in imitation of him, Cicero groped after the future life, 
 but with no real assurance that they had found it. 
 
 I have said then that the future life cannot be exactly 
 demonstrated. I have shown that the Bible lays no par- 
 ticular emphasis upon it. There is just one word more 
 to say. 
 
 Lay too strong an emphasis upon the future life and 
 what will be the result? You will lay a lesser emphasis 
 on this life. Comparisons of this life with other life will 
 be, in every case, to the advantage of the present life. 
 Within a month, I heard a Christian man speak of this 
 world as a thing sin-cursed beyond redemption. And yet 
 it is God's world, our Father's world. 
 
 Let a man's thoughts be too much of the time in the 
 New Jerusalem, treading its streets of gold and associat- 
 ing with its sinless inhabitants and every time he returns 
 from his quiet meditations he is likely to be less in touch 
 with the life of the New York, Philadelphia, or other 
 town where he lives. He will regard it defilement to rub 
 shoulders too closely with people who are wholly en- 
 grossed in this world: men who are atheists, Sabbath- 
 breakers, lewd, profane, corrupt, who are engrossed in 
 worldly business, whose hearts are set on making money. 
 Such a man will think himself defiled by associating him- 
 self with political and social problems and life. 
 
 The greatest criticism against Christian people has 
 been that they have not touched shoulders closely enough 
 with the world. They have mistaken the Master's mean- 
 ing when he told them that they must be in the world but 
 not of the world. 
 
 The most popular of all the hymns on heaven, frag- 
 ments of which we sing in these later days, is an old 
 Latin hymn entitled, "On the Contempt of this World." 
 
I do not quote it because I do not wish to shock any one 
 in any of the things that are precious to him. 
 
 In dwelling on this point I am laying the emphasis 
 precisely where it was not laid when I was a young man. 
 Books were published then representing the death-bed 
 scenes of atheists, of unbelievers, of saints, and one was 
 led to believe that most men, in dying, must make some 
 peculiar parting scene, in which they shall be brought to 
 express their faith or their unfaith, their ecstacy or dread 
 in dying. We have no such books now. The induce- 
 ments for being religious then were either the joys of an 
 unending heaven or the tortures of a fire everlasting. 
 The future life with its rewards or punishments, but 
 with its punishment especially, was the thing with which 
 to induce men to take up the Christian life. I simply 
 state the fact when I say, it is not so now and it should 
 never have been so, because to lay too great emphasis on 
 the life to come is to cripple ourselves in living the life 
 that now is. 
 
 The last point I make is that the work of God, the 
 perfecting of our souls, can be done under these two con- 
 ditions only. 
 
 Emphasize and lay all stress upon the present 
 through all your life to the last moment of it. Think 
 little of the future and only so far forth as you must 
 sometimes think of it. Accept this world as heaven I am 
 not speaking without thought or with extravagance 
 accept this world as heaven, otherwise there is danger you 
 will never accept any world as such. Is not this God's 
 world ? Has not God put you here and others good or bad 
 with you ? Why find fault with anything here : with your 
 unfortunate worldly condition, with your one talent, with 
 sin, with ill-health, with your outlook? Why live in a 
 spirit of discontent, or work up a spirit of discontent? 
 
 210 
 
You are born for present happiness, for present con- 
 tentment, for present gratitude to the Unseen. Take mo- 
 ments in your life and let them serve as samples. Are 
 there not times in your life when you say : "The world 
 could not be more beautiful. My friends are as dear as 
 friends can be. My lot in life is all I could desire." I 
 have never yet seen a person who has not had a moment of 
 such a sort in his life. Well, that is the way to feel more 
 of the time and finally all the time. If our surroundings 
 are not what one would call heaven, the heart and mind 
 can make them so, and that is what must make a heaven 
 of any place. 
 
 Look on sin and sinners as means towards goodness 
 and holiness. A good deal of so-called sin is not sin at all. 
 It partly results from ignorance and partly from a nature 
 that needs training and purifying. In any case it is not 
 a thing to separate ourselves from as Pharisees do. 
 
 Our Lord, at the opening of his great sermon, pro- 
 nounces nine beautitudes and blessings: on the poor-in- 
 spirit, on the mourners, the meek, the hungry-after- 
 righteousness, on the merciful, the pure in heart, the peace- 
 makers, the patient-under-persecution. Think what all 
 these imply. They are graces that must grow up among 
 and must be tested by certain forms of present evil; by 
 pride, hard heartedness, vanity, love of the world, pollu- 
 tion, and tyranny. Saintliness is not won in some colorless, 
 faded, bleached-out heaven, where there is no struggle. 
 Saintliness is gained only on earth, gained only by present 
 contact with sin and sinners and not by separation from 
 them. If separation from the world means to be cut off 
 from the poor and the sin-stained, and the profane, and 
 the corrupt, then I surely have read Christ's life in vain. 
 
 211 
 
Make the fight for a holy life now, right away. Do 
 not make a compromise with evil so as to worry in any 
 way your fellow man, or lower your standards of holi- 
 ness to displease God. The other man, and the other man, 
 and still the other man may not be holy, "but be ye holy 
 for I am holy," saith the Lord. 
 
 Do not be a coward. Take up the work of life. Do 
 not shrink back from it. Do not say I will take it up by 
 and by. It requires too much sacrifice now. I am en- 
 grossed with business now, perhaps God will accept that 
 as an equivalent. I will serve Him better when I get 
 into those more ideal conditions. 
 
 But I have told you that there are no more ideal 
 conditions, that now is the accepted time, that you have 
 the present, and that upon the use you make of that pres- 
 ent depends the future and all there is in it. Be assured 
 of your immortality. Be assured that eternal life the 
 only real life of the soul is offered you in Jesus Christ. 
 Accept that life, and do not be the coward to refuse it. 
 
 "Foiled by our fellowmen, depressed, outworn, 
 We leave the brutal world to take its way; 
 And "Patience! In another life," we say, 
 "The world shall be thrust down and we upborne." 
 And will not then the immortal armies scorn 
 The world's poor routed leavings?. Or will they 
 Who failed under the heat of this life's day 
 Support the fervors of the heavenly morn? 
 
 "No, no ! The energy of life may be 
 
 Kept on after the grave, but not begun; 
 
 And he who nagged not in the earthly strife 
 From strength to strength advancing only he, 
 His soul well-knit, and all his battles won, 
 Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life." 
 
 Delivered in the Auditorium, April 3, 1910. 
 212 
 
APPENDIX 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 There are preserved in the Carnegie Library of The Pennsyl- 
 vania State College the one hundred and forty_eight sermons 
 preached by Dr. Gill to the student body between the years 1899 
 and 1910. He had preached frequently in the Old Chapel before 
 this time, but he does not seem to have preserved the sermons. A 
 few of the later sermons would seem to be earlier efforts rede- 
 livered, but it takes only short examination to show that Dr. Gill 
 never preached an old sermon without rewriting it so completely 
 that it was really new. He was careful to give each sermon a 
 title and to mark the date, and place of delivery upon it. Follow- 
 ing are the titles and dates of his sermons to the student body. 
 Those marked with the asterisk (*) have been printed in full or 
 in part in this volume: 
 
 1899-1900. 
 
 1. Uncertainties and Success. Heb. 9:8. Sept. 24. 
 
 2. Downward Tendencies. Matt. 4:6. Oct. 8. 
 
 3. Giving and Getting. Acts 20:35. Oct. 22. 
 
 4. The Athletic Spirit. I Cor. 9:25. Nov. 5. 
 
 5. Christ, The Only Savior. Acts 4:12. Nov. 19. 
 
 6. The Philosophy of "Getting There." Acts 28:14. Dec. 10. 
 
 7. Rational Piety. Rom. 12:1. Jan. 7. 
 
 8. Just Missing Christ. John 4:10. Jan. 21. 
 
 9. The Secure Foundation. Matt. 7:24-27. Feb. 4. 
 
 10. The Cure of Moral Leprosy. II Kings 5:12. Feb 18. 
 
 11. A Christian Consciousness. Acts 26: 29. Mar. 4. 
 
 12. The Responsibility of the Hearer. Luke 8:18. Mar. 18. 
 
 13. Religion and Life. John 10:10 April 8. 
 
 *14. Kadesh-barnea or Consulting One's Fears. Deut. 1:19. 
 
 April 29. 
 15. The Lilies as Preachers. Matt. 6:28. May 20. 
 
 1900-1901 
 16 Leaving Home. Gen. 37:14. Sept. 16. 
 
 17. True Worship. Acts 14:15-17 Sept. 30. 
 
 18. God Revealed in Man. Heb. 1:1 and 2. Oct. 14. 
 
 19. Suffering Saints. I Kings 19:10. Oct. 28. 
 
 215 
 
20. Concealment and Confession. Prov. 28:13. Nov. 11. 
 
 21. Reflections on Work. Mark 14:8. Nov. 25. 
 
 22. The Search for Christ. Mark 1 :37. Jan. 6. 
 
 *23. Values Inherent in Friendship. I Sam. 18:1. Feb. 17. 
 
 24. Christ's University. Titus 2:11-13. Mar. 3. 
 
 25. Opening Young Eyes. II Kings 6:17. Mar. 17. 
 
 26. Christ, the Life. Matt. 28:7. April 7. 
 
 27. The Indispensability of Repentance. Luke 24:47. April 21. 
 
 28. Christ's Humiliation. Phil. 2:8. May 12. 
 
 29. The Improvement of Our Talents. Matt. 25:13-15. June 2. 
 
 1901-1902 
 
 30. The Call of Religion. Phil. 4:8. Sept. 15. 
 
 31. The Lesson of God's Providence. Gen. 22:2. Sept. 29. 
 
 32. The Use of Our Time. Eccles. 9:10. Oct. 13. 
 *33. The Preciousness of the Bible. Ps. 1 :2. Oct. 27. 
 
 34. The Relation of Gratitude to Religion. Ps. 116:11. Nov. 23. 
 
 35. Our Responsibilities to Others. I Thess. 5:11. Dec. 8. 
 
 36. A Receptive Life. Matt. 13:4 and 8. Jan. 5. 
 
 37. The Nobility of God's Salvation. Rom. 1:16-17. Jan. 19. 
 *38. How to Spend My Sundays. Ezek. 20:20. Feb. 2. 
 
 39. Angelic Ministeries. Matt. 4:11. Mar. 2. 
 
 40. Our Attitude Toward Suffering. Luke 33:39-41. Mar. 16. 
 
 41. The Divinity of Christ as a Force Against the World. 
 
 I John 5:4. April 6. 
 
 42. The Good Tendencies in a Bad Life. Luke 15:11.24. April 
 
 20. 
 
 43. The Evil Tendencies of a Good Life. Luke 15:29-30. May 4. 
 
 44. Dreams and Dreamers. Gen. 37:19. May 18. 
 
 45. Decision of Character. II Kings 7:3-4. June 1. 
 
 1902-1903 
 
 46. Under Changed Conditions. Eccl. 9:11. Sept. 21. 
 
 47. Noble Youth; Noble Manhood. Dan. 6:10. Oct. 5. 
 
 48. Preaching Christ. Acts 8:35. Oct. 19. 
 
 49. Perfection According to Kind. (No text spoken without 
 
 notes). Nov. 23. 
 
 50. The Light of the World. Acts 26:17-18. Dec. 21. 
 
 51. Taking Life Seriously. John 9:4. Jan. 11. 
 
 52. The Choice or Rejection of Men. Judges 7:7. Jan. 25. 
 
 53. The Value of True Confession. Ps. 51:4. Feb. 8. 
 
 216 
 
54. Treasures Never Waxing Old. Matt. 13:44-46. Mar. 1. 
 
 55. The Road to Religion. Eccl. 11:9-10. Mar. 15. 
 
 56. The Manliness of Religion. Phil. 4:13. Mar. 29. 
 
 57. The Permanent Hope of Man. Luke 24:5. April 12. 
 
 58. Disobedience to Duty, or Neglected Opportunities. I Kings 
 
 13:30. May 17. 
 
 *59. The Problems of Life Solved by Worship. Ps. 73:17. 
 June 7. 
 
 (Last sermon in the Old Chapel.) 
 
 1903-1904 
 
 60. Symmetrical Manhood. Luke 2:52. Sept. 20. 
 
 61. Contemporary Greatness, or the Greatness that is Right 
 
 Above Us. Eccl. 7:10. Oct. 4. 
 
 62. The Religious Life. Ps. 23 3. Oct. 18. 
 
 63. The Logic of Christian Events. Acts 10:34-43. Nov. 1. 
 
 64. A Young Man's Influence. John 1:41. Nov. 15. 
 
 65. A College Brotherhood. Acts 22:3. Dec. 13. 
 
 66. The Sweetest Story Ever Told. John 3:16. Jan. 10 
 
 67. Our Apathy to Improvement. Num. 11:5-6. Jan. 24. 
 
 68. Our Attitude to Life. Luke 14:10. Feb. 7. 
 
 69. Some Pioneer Traits of Character. Num. 13:30. Feb. 21. 
 
 70. Religious Conversation. John 4:26. Mar. 6. 
 
 71. The Thought of God. Isa. 40:18. Mar. 20. 
 
 72. The Needs of God. Matt. 21:3. Mar. 27. 
 
 73. Moods, Critical and Devotional. John 20:27. April 17. 
 
 74. Honoring Manhood in Ourselves and in Others. Acts 10:28. 
 
 May8. 
 
 75. The Responsibilities Connected with Human Liberty. Rev. 
 
 22:17. May 22. 
 
 1904-1905 
 
 76. Passing on the Torch. Phil^3:14. Sept. 18. 
 
 77. Making Our Earth a Paradise. Mark 16:7. Oct. 2. 
 
 78. The Crown of Holy Character. Rev. 3:11. Oct. 16. 
 
 79. Jehovah-Worship or Calf- Worship. Ex. 32:24. Nov. 6. 
 
 80. Knowing the Truth. John 8:32. Dec. 11. 
 
 81. Christian Freedom. John 8:32. Jan. 8. 
 
 82. The Pearl of Great Price. Matt. 13:45-46. Jan. 22. 
 
 83. Incitements to Progress. Num. 13:23. Feb. 5. 
 
 84. Line upon Line. Is. 28:10. Mar. 5. 
 
 217 
 
85. Divine Traces Restored. II Cor. 5:17. April 9. 
 
 86. The True Religion Concerned with Responsibilities Rather 
 
 than Principles. II Tim. 1:12. April 30. 
 
 87. A Frowning Providence is a Smiling Face. I Kings 17:6. 
 
 May 7. 
 
 *88. Of What Use is an Old Man Anyhow? Gen. 47:8-9. May 21. 
 89. The Pronoun "I." Acts 10:26. June 4. 
 
 1905-1906 
 *90. Academic Foundations. I Tim. 6:19. Sept. 17. 
 
 91. Leaving Our Lord. John 6:6-7. Oct. 15. 
 
 92. The Moral Value of a Great Hope. Heb. 11:22. Oct. 22. 
 
 93. No Cross No Crown. Matt. 3:17 and 4:1. Nov. 5. 
 
 94. Our Natural Relation Toward Wealth and Men of Wealth. 
 
 No text. Nov. 26. 
 
 95. Ventilating a Matter. Isa. 1:18. Dec. 3. 
 
 96. The Generosity of God. Ps. 145:16. Dec. 17. 
 
 97. Three Serious Questions. Zech. 2:4. Jan. 7. 
 
 *98. A Man is Worth What He can Think. Prov. 14:23. Jan. 21. 
 
 99. How to Deal with Evil and Evils. Matt. 13:28-29. Feb. 4. 
 
 100. Faith Founded on Little Things. I Kings 17:14. Feb. 18. 
 
 101. The Fitness of Religion for the Soul, and the Conditions of 
 
 its Growth. II Peter 3:18. Mar. 11. 
 
 102. The Will of God. I John 2:17. Mar. 18. 
 
 103. What Knowledge is of Most Worth? I Cor. 2:2. April 8. 
 
 104. The Resurrection Morning. Mark 16:4 and 8. April 15. 
 
 105. Sins of Speech. Jas. 3:8. May 6. 
 
 106. Divine Energy and Its Transmission. John 17:22. May 20. 
 *107. Success Through Monotony. II Kings 13:19. June 3. 
 
 1906-1907 
 
 108. Picking Up Religious Experience. Deut. 8:2. Sept. 16. 
 
 109. The Vistas of the Sons of God. I John 3:2. Sept. 30. 
 
 110. The Goal of the Sons of God. I John 3:2. Oct. 14. 
 
 111. Abraham's Idea. Gen. 12:3. Oct. 28. 
 
 112. A Normal Conscience. Dan. 3:16-18. Nov. 11. 
 
 113. The Revelation of Man and Its Consequences. Rom. 8:19. 
 
 Jan. 6. 
 
 114. Consulting Our Fears. Deut. 1:19. Jan. 13. 
 
 115. Abraham's Idea Developed. Ps. 150. Feb. 10. 
 
 116. Enlargement of Vision. II Kings 6:17. Feb. 19. 
 
 218 
 
117. Meditations on a Common Coin. Matt. 22:20-21. Feb. 24. 
 
 118. God Manifested in Jesus Christ. I Cor. 1:23-24. Mar. 24. 
 
 119. Living for Old Age. Deut. 34:7. April 14. 
 
 120. The Noblest of all Wishes. Eph. 3:14-19. April 28. 
 
 '121. Moulded by an Idea, a Brief Memorial of President George 
 W. Atherton. May 26. 
 
 122. A Religion Without Fears. Acts 20:20-21. June 2. 
 
 1907-1908 
 
 123. Missing. 
 
 124. The Rock of Ages. Matt. 7:25 and 27. Oct. 27. 
 
 125. "Give All Thou Canst." Matt. 20:35. Nov. 3. 
 
 126. Lead Kindly Light. Acts 8:31. Dec. 1. 
 
 127. The Way of the Ransomed. Acts 8:31. Dec. 8. 
 
 128. The Yoke of Christ. Matt. 11:28-30. Jan. 12. 
 
 129. Salvation Man's and God's Method. II Kings 5:12. 
 
 Jan, 26. 
 
 130. Character in the Light of God's Will. I Sam. 14:27. Feb. 23. 
 
 131. The Discovery of Our Manhood and Its Implications. 
 
 Phil. 2:8. Mar. 22. 
 
 132. Paul's Valuation of the Love of Christ. Rom. 9:1-2. 
 
 April 5. 
 
 133. The Revelation of the Glory of the Godhead. John 16:4. 
 
 May 10. 
 
 134. Learning from the Lilies. Matt. 6:28. May 24. 
 
 1908-1909 
 f !35. Honoring One's Name. I Sam. 3:10. Sept. 20. 
 
 136. Life and Its Appliances. Exod. 4:3. Oct. 4. 
 
 137. Ways of Professing Religion. Josh. 2:21 Nov. 1. 
 f !38. The Evils of Borrowing Trouble. Deut. 1:19. Nov. 15. 
 
 139. Answers to Prayers. Mark 11:24. Dec. 13. 
 
 140. Separation from God. Isa. 59:1-2. Jan. 17. 
 
 141. God's Commandments. I John 5:3. Feb. 7. 
 
 142. The Effectual Knowledge of Christ. John 9:25. Mar. 7. 
 
 1909-1910 
 
 143. Making Clear the Way and the Way Clear. Ps. 119:9. 
 
 Sept. 19 
 
 144. The Pronoun "I." Acts 10:26. Oct. 10. 
 
 145. Light-Giving Life. Prov. 20:27. Nov. 21. 
 
 219 
 
146. The Only Reasonable Form of Prayer. Matt. 7:9. Nov. 28. 
 
 147. Is There Any Tangible Profit in Professing Christ? Acts 
 
 26:29. Jan. 23. 
 
 *148. Some Practical Bearings of a Belief in the Future Life. 
 I Cor. 15:58. April 3. 
 
 So far as I can find, this is Dr. Gill's last sermon before the 
 student body. He preached in August on the front campus before 
 the united churches of the town and the teachers of the summer 
 school. 
 
 220 
 
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